THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SHORT   PLAYS 

BY 

REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

KKW  YORK    •    liOSTON    •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


SHORT  PLAYS 


BY 


REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 


EDITED    BY 

ALICE   M.   SMITH,   B.A. 

TEACHER  OF  ENGLISH,   FRANKLIN  JUNIOR  HIGH  SCHOOL 
MINNEAPOLIS,    MINNESOTA 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1920 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  192^, 
By  the  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  August,  1920. 


Nortaooti  prrss 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


loH^ 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

In  these  latter  days  when  all  places  on  the  earth 
have  grown  of  interest  and  a  feeling  of  world  kinship 
is  to  be  desired,  it  is  well  that  not  only  the  student  and 
the  general  reader,  but  young  persons  as  well,  should 
feel  the  thought  of  nations  through  their  literatures. 
What  more  efficacious  than  a  record  of  life  through  the 
medium  of  drama  ?  Morsels  in  the  form  of  the  short 
play  may  lead  to  further  acquaintance  with  not  only 
these  dramatists,  but  with  others  of  equal  or  greater 

rank. 

For  a  visit  with  strong  personalities,  here  is  offered 
the  acquaintance  of  the  agrarian  hero,  the  Scandmavian 
pioneer  of  Iceland  in  "The  Hraun  Farm,"  the  homely 
sweet  Welsh  soul  in  "The  Merry  Merry  Cuckoo," 
and  the  Amazonian  determination  of  the  woman  of 
the  Sagas  in  "The  Locked  Chest." 

To  move  in  a  mystical  atmosphere,  the  reader  may 
live  with  the  very  heart  of  India  in  the  spiritually 
beautiful  "Post  Office." 

For  humor,  there  is  enjoyment  of  the  fanciful  in 
"  Six  Who  Pass,"  and  the  sharing  of  a  laugh  both  last 
and  best  in  a  return  to  the  past  with  an  innovation 
in  England's  literature  in  "The  Silver  Lining."  A 
surreptitious  peep  into  domestic  foibles  in  "By  Our- 
selves" is  allowed  by  a  modern  German  who  is  not  a 
materialist;      an   open   invitation   is   extended   by   an 


V 


943968 


vi  PREFATORY  NOTE 

American  to  view  the  negro  mind  laid  bare  in  "The 

Rider  of  Dreams,"  and  the  spirit  of  Irish  humor  and 

naivete  is  reaHstic,  indeed,  in  "Spreading  the  News." 

Lastly,  pathos  has  its  mission  for  us  in  the  sad  solo 

of  the  Russian  in  "The  Swan  Song,"  and  poverty  and 

injustice  claim  attention  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  the 

victim  in  his  native  home  as   seen  in  "The  Man  on 

the  Kerb,"   and   to   the   victim   of  adoption    in  "The 

Shadowed  Star." 

A.  M.  S. 

Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 


CONTENTS 


PACK 


The  Hraun  Farm Johann  Sigurjonsson     .     .         i 

The  Merry  Merry   Cuckoo     .  Jeannette  Marks  ....  55 

The  Locked  Chest John  Masefield    ....  73A 

The  Post  Office Rabindranath  Tagore    .     .  107 

Six     Who      Pass     While     the 

Lentils  Boil Stuart  Walker      ....  139 

The  Silver  Lining Constance  d'Arcy  Mackay  171 

By  Ol'RSELves Ludzvig  Fulda      ....  183    ^ 

The  Rider  of  Dreams      .     .     .  Ridgely  Torrence .     ...  221 

Spreading  the  News    ....  Lady  Augusta  Gregory       .  247 

The  Swan  Song Anton  Tchekhoff  ....  271   U-"^ 

The  Man  on  the  Kerb    .     .     .  Alfred  Sutro 283 

The  Shadowed  Star     ....  Mary  MacMillan     ...  299      ^^ 


vu 


THE   HRAUN   FARM^ 

(Gaarden  Hraun) 

BY 

JOHANN   SIGURJONSSON 

TRANSLATED    BY 

HENNINGE   KROHN   SCHANCHE 


1  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  translator,  representing  the 
author,  and  by  permission  of  the  American-Scandinavian  Founda- 
tion. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 

the  translator. 


Johann  Slgurjonsson,  the  Icelandic  dramatist,  may 
not  be  well  known  to  many,  but  three  great  dramas, 
"Mr.  Rand,"  "  Bjoerg-Ejvind,"  and  "The  Hraun 
Farm,"  will  account  for  the  acclamation  of  some 
critics  that  he  is  the  equal  of  Ibsen,  Bjornson,  and 
Strindberg.  Human  feelings  are.  powerfully  por- 
trayed, and  pictures  of  his  passionately  loved  Iceland 
are  vigorously  drawn.  Yet  with  this  intensity  of 
devotion  and  poetic  vision,  there  is  the  diction  of  fine 
self-possession  and  exactness  of  analysis. 

In  "The  Hraun  Farm"  ("hraun"  meaning  a  field 
covered  with  volcanic  stone)  the  reader  is  reminded 
of  the  ancient  tribal  people  in  the  terrible  struggle 
of  the  father  between  love  for  his  land  and  love  for 
his  child.  The  very  height  of  poetic  feeling  is  reached 
in  Sveinungi's  reminiscent  speech  m  the  second  act. 
The  loving  tactfulness  of  Jorunn  brings  the  play  to  a 
happy  ending. 


Servants 


THE    HRAUN    FARM 

Dramatis    Persons 

SvEiNUNGi,  owner  of  the  Hraun  Farm 

JoRUNN,  his  wife 

LjOT,  their  daughter 

EiNAR,  a  relative  of  Jorunn 

Jakobina,  a7i  old  woman 

Frida,  a  child,  eleven  years  old 

S0LVI,  a  geologist 

Jon 

Indridi 

Helgi 

Rannveig 

Bj0RG 

Thora 

A  Shepherd  Boy 

The  action  takes  place  in  Iceland.    Time  :  the  present. 
"Hraun"  is  the  Icelandic  word  for  lava-field. 

ACT  I 

[The  farm.  Five  white  gables,  all  adjoining  and  separated 
by  heavy  partitions.  The  roof  is  covered  with  turf, 
the  walls  are  of  earth  and  stone.  The  gable  farthest  to 
the  left  is  without  a  door,  but  has  two  windows  on  the 
ground  floor  and  a  smaller  window  above.  The  next 
has  a  door  leading  into  the  "badstofa"  or  servants' 
quarters.      The  third  is  a  dairy  and  storehouse ;    the 

3 


4      SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

fotirih,  a  smithy;  the  fifth,  a  dryhig-shed.  In  the 
yardis  a  horse-block  ;  to  the  left,  a  picket  fence.  Be- 
fore the  doors  lie  the  packs  unloaded  from  nine  horses : 
two  green  chests,  sacks  of  grain  and  household  stuff, 
lumber,  and  a  number  of  other  articles.  Jakobina 
stands  feeling  one  of  the  sacks.  Helgi  is  undoing 
the  strappings.  The  door  to  the  smithy  is  open. 
EiNAR  is  seen  zvithin,  forging  horseshoe  nails.] 
[It  is  viorfiing,  before  breakfast.] 

Jakobina  [talking  half  to  herself].  This  must  be 
coffee.  [Lays  her  hand  on  one  of  the  chests.]  And 
what  has  Jorunn  got  in  these,  I  wonder !  I  fancy 
there  are  many  pretty  things  there. 

Helgi.     You  may  be  sure  of  that. 

Jakobina.  Nineteen  years  I've  been  here  now, 
and  it's  never  happened  yet  that  the  mistress  has 
forgotten  to  bring  something  or  other  to  please  me 
when  she  came  back  from  town,  —  and  it  wasn't 
always  little  things  either,  God  bless  her !  Oh,  but 
there  they  have  knocked  off  the  paint.  What  a 
shame !  [Sits  down  on  the  chest  and  runs  her  hand 
over  the  paint.] 

[Enter  Bj0rg  and  Rannveig  from  the  left,  carrying 
pails  full  of  milk,  which  they  set  down.] 

Rannveig.  They  brought  home  quite  a  bit.  We 
shall  not  go  hungry  for  a  while  yet.     Where  are  they  ? 

Helgi.     They  are  inside,  drinking  coffee. 

Bj0RG.     Is  Jon  drunk  ? 

Helgi.     Not  so  very;  he's  just  a  little  gay. 

The  Shepherd  Boy.  Are  you  through  milking 
already  ? 

Bj0RG.     Can't  you  see  for  yourself.? 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  ^  5 

The  Shepherd  Boy.  Oh,  pshaw!  [His  eyes  light 
on  the  lumber  piles.  He  bends  down  and  begins  to  count 
the  knots  in  the  zvood.]     One,  two,  three  — 

[Enter  Sveinungi  from  the  "  badstofa."] 

SvEiNUNGi.  What  do  you  say,  girls  ?  Quite  a 
pack,  isn't  it  ? 

Bj0RG.     I  should  say  so  ! 

Sveinungi  [to  Helgi].  You've  begun  to  undo  the 
strappings  ?     That's  fine.     And  here  come  the  others. 

[Enter  Jon  and  Indridi  from  the  house.  Jon  is 
somewhat  intoxicated.] 

Jon.  Here  stands  our  dear  master.  Good  day  to 
you,  Rannveig!     Good  day! 

Bj0RG  and  Rannveig.  Good  day,  and  welcome 
home ! 

Sveinungi  [laughing].  Why  don't  you  put  your 
arms  around  the  girls  and  give  them  a  kiss .?  Are  you 
afraid  ^ 

Jon.     No,  Jon  isn't  afraid. 

Sveinungi.  You  didn't  get  anything  with  your 
coffee.     [Runs  into  the  house.] 

Jon.     He  is  the  same  as  ever. 

[Bj0RG  and  Rannveig  carry  the  milk  into  the  store- 
house.] 

Jakobina  [rising].  You  didn't  take  notice  of  any- 
thing in  particular  on  your  way  back  ? 

Indridi.     Not  that  I  remember. 

Jakobina.     Did  you  see  many  birds  ? 

Indridi.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  believe  I 
saw  any. 

Jakobina.  That's  what  I  thought.  [Goes  into  the 
house.  Enter  Sveinungi  from  the  house  with  a  flask 
and  a  glass,  which  he  fills.] 


6      SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi.     Here,  this  is  for  you. 

Jon  [drinks].     Thanks. 

SvEiNUNGi  [fills  the  glass  again  for  Indridi  and 
Helgi].     Won't  you  take  a  drop  too,  Einar  ? 

[EiNAR  appears  in  the  doorway  of  the  smithy.] 

Einar.     Thank   you.     [Drinks.] 

SvEiNUNGi  [sees  The  Shepherd  Boy].  Are  you  here  ? 
Why,  the  girls  are  all  through  milking.  Do  you  sup- 
pose you  can  keep  the  sheep  standing  in  the  fold  all 
day  ?  [The  Shepherd  Boy  is  about  to  go.]  Wait  a 
minute!  I  have  a  little  thing  here  that  I  bought  for 
you  yesterday.  [Takes  a  knife  from  his  vest  pocket.] 
I  think  the  blade  is  good  iron,  and  that  is  the  main 
thing.  [Gives  him  the  knife.  The  Shepherd  Boy 
kisses  him.]'    It  is  not  much.     You  are  welcome  to  it. 

The  Shepherd  Boy  [opens  his  knife].  Look,  Einar, 
it's  a  regular  hunting  knife.  [Closes  it,  runs  to  the  left, 
calling.]     Snati !  Pila  !  Snati ! 

Rannveig.  You  needn't  call  the  dogs.  They  are 
up  at  the  fold.     [Exit  The  Shepherd  Boy.] 

Sveinungi.  That  boy  will  amount  to  something 
in  time.  It's  well  done  for  one  so  young  to  tend  more 
than  fourscore  sheep,  and  he  hasn't  lost  one  yet. 
[Takes  the  flask  hack  to  the  house.] 

Jon.  He's  in  mighty  good  humor  to-day,  the  old 
man. 

Bj0RG.     I  should  say  so. 

Indridi.  Why,  he  got  the  highest  price  for  his 
wool. 

Jon.  And  a  sorry  day  it  would  be  when  we  didn't 
get  that ! 

Indridi.  What  do  you  think  Jakobina  had  in  mind 
when  she  asked  about  the  birds  .'' 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  7 

Jon.  It's  hard  to  tell !  She  has  her  mind  on  so 
many  things.  [Enter  Sveinungi  and  Jorunn  Jrom  the 
house.] 

Sveinungi  [in  the  door,  laughing  and  talking].  I 
believe  the  girls  have  their  eye  on  the  green  chests. 
Indridi,  will  you  carry  them  in  ?  [Indridi  goes  with 
one  of  the  chests.] 

Jorunn.     You  can   put  them  in  the  little  room. 

Sveinungi.  Rannveig,  will  you  bring  me  the  key 
to  the  drying  shed  ?  You  know  where  it  hangs. 
[Rannveig  runs  in.]  You  boys  will  have  to  carry  the 
breadstuffs  up  into  the  loft  of  the  storehouse,  and  the 
coffee  and  sugar  too,  and  while  I  think  of  it,  you  had 
better  take  one  sack  out  to  the  mill,  Helgi. 

Helgi.     I    will. 

Sveinungi  [opening  a  ha^.  Here,  Einar,  you'll 
find  iron  and  nails  and  brazil-wood,  and  here's  some- 
thing for  yourself.  [Hands  him  a  plug  of  tobacco.]  See 
if  you  can  be  a  bit  saving  of  it. 

Einar  [pats  him  on  the  shoulder].     God  bless  you  ! 

[Goes  into  the  smithy.] 

Rannveig  [comes  out].     Here  is  the  key. 

Sveinungi  [unlocks  the  door  to  the  drying-shed]. 
You  can  stack  the  timber  on  top  of  the  old  pile. 
After  you  have  had  your  breakfast,  you,  Jon,  and  In- 
dridi had  better  go  and  lie  down.     You  must  be  tired. . 

Jon.  I  am  sure  I  could  keep  on  working  all  day  if 
need  be,  and  just  as  hard  as  those  who  have  had  their 
sleep.     [Indridi  comes  for  the  other  chest.] 

Sveinungi  [laughs].     There  are  not  many  like  you. 

Jorunn.     Where  is  Ljot  ?     I  thought  she  was  here. 

Helgi.  I  saw  her  walking  in  the  yard.  I  have  not 
seen  her  come  back. 


8      SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi    [goes    to    the    picket  fence;  calls].     Ljot ! 

LjoT  [is  heard  answering].     Yes ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  Are  you  there  ?  Aren't  you  coming 
home  ? 

Ljot  [is  heard  answering].     I  am  coming. 

JoRUNN.     Have  you  set  the  milk  ? 

Rannveig.     Yes. 

JoRUNN.  Then  come  in,  if  you  want  to  see  what  I 
have  brought. 

EiNAR  [steps  to  the  door  of  the  smithy.  He  holds  a 
snuff-box  in  his  hand,  and  is  rolling  up  a  long  plug  of 
tobacco,  which  he  puts  into  the  box].  This  tastes  better; 
the  old  stuff  was  getting  as  dry  as  hay.  (S/)i7/.]  Oh, 
well,  there  was  a  time,  but  that's  so  long  ago. 

Helgi.     What  are  you  talking  about  ? 

EiNAR.  It  was  a  winter  night,  and  I  was  lying  in 
wait  for  the  fox.  Well,  what  happened  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  this,  that  when  I  wanted  to  take  a 
chew  of  tobacco,  I  found  I'd  left  the  box  at  home.  I 
can  stand  it  for  one  night,  I  thought,  but  it  was  cold 
where  I  was  lying,  and  the  fox  made  himself  scarce. 
Let  me  tell  you,  when  I  had  been  waiting  till  nearly 
dawn,  I'd  gladly  have  given  my  soul  for  a  good  honest 
chew. 

[Ljot  passes  through  from  the  right,  carrying  some 
freshly  gathered  flowers  in  her  hand.  Goes  into  the 
house.] 

Helgi.     And  did  you  get  the  fox  ? 

EiNAR.  I  did.  It  came  just  as  I  was  about  to  go 
home. 

[Enter   Indridi  from  the  house.] 

Jon.  When  you  got  home,  I'm  sure  you  went 
straight  for  a  good  big  plug  of  tobacco. 


THE  IIRAUX  FARM  9 

EiNAR.  Maybe  I  did  !  It  was  the  finest  blue  fox 
I've   ever  shot. 

[Enter  Frida  from  the  left.    She  is  warm  from  running.] 
Frida.     Now  I've  turned  the  horses  out  on  the  grass. 
[Wipes  her  forehead.]     Do  you  want   me   to   pull   the 
bellows    for   you  ? 

Einar.  You'd  better  go  in  and  see  if  Jorunn  should 
happen  to  have  something  for  you.  Then  you  can 
come  back  here.     [Frida  runs  in.] 

[Enter  Bj0RG  and  Rannveig  from  the  house.] 
Bj0RG.     See  what  the  mistress  has  brought  for  me! 
[Holding  up  a  piece  of  cloth.]     It  will  be  fun  to  make  that 
into  an  apron. 

Rannveig.  I  got  a  head-kerchief  with  red  flowers 
[holds  it  up]  and  a  piece  of  soap.     [Smells  it.] 

Jon.     May  I  .?     [Smells  it.]     You'll  be  good  to  kiss, 
when   you   have  washed   with   that   soap. 
Rannveig.     Only  I  won't  let  you. 
Thora  [in  the  doorzvay].     I  must  show  you  what  I 
got,  too. 

[Enter  S0LVI  from  the  left,  carrying  a  gun  over  his 
shoulder  and  a  small  knapsack  on  his  back.] 
S0LVI.     Good  day  to  you  ! 
The  Servants.     Good  day  ! 
Indridi.     We  did  not  see  you  coming. 
S0LVI.     I  took  the  short  cut.     May  I  have  something 
to  drink  ?     I   am  thirsty. 

Rannveig.     I'll  get  it  for  you. 

S0LVI  [lowering  his  voice].     And   may  I  see  Ljot  for 
a  moment .''     I  have  something  for  her. 
Rannveig.     I'll  tell  her.     [Exeunt  Girls.] 
Indridi.     Have  you  any  news  ? 
S0LVI.      No. 


,IO    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Indridi.     You  are  still  at  Hoi  ? 

S0LVI.     Yes. 

Indridi.     Have  they  begun  to  cut  the  hay  ? 

S0LVI.     Not  yet. 

Indridi.  They  generally  start  before  any  of  the 
other  farms. 

S0LVI.  They  need  to.  They  don't  keep  much 
help.     [Enter  Rannveig  with  the  milk.] 

Rannveig.  Here  it  is,  and  you  are  welcome  to 
it. 

S0LVI  [drinks].     Thanks. 

Rannveig.     I  have  told  Ljot.        [Goes  in.] 

Helgi.  Here,  give  me  a  hand!  [Indridi  lifts  the 
sack  to  Helgi's  hack;  Helgi  carries  it  out  to  the  left.] 

Jon  [coiling  the  last  ropes].  We  can  start  carrying 
the  lumber  into  the  shed. 

[Enter  LjOT  from  the  house.] 

S0LVI.     Good  day  to  you,  Ljot ! 

Ljot.     Good  day  !     You  wished  to  see  me  ? 

S0LVI.  You  won't  be  angry  with  me  ?  —  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  like  this.  [Takes  the  skin  of  a  duck 
from  his  knapsack.]  I  shot  it  on  the  creek  the  other 
day,  and  I  thought  it  was  so  pretty  that  I  took  oflF  the 
skin  and  dried  it.  Do  you  think  you  could  make  use 
of  it  —  say  for  a  riding-cap  t 

Ljot.     It  is  beautiful. 

S0LVI.  When  you  hold  the  wing  this  way  the  spot 
is  blue,  and  when  you  hold  it  so  it  is  green ;  it's  the 
way  the  light  falls. 

Ljot.  I  doubt  if  I  dare  take  it.  I  scarcely  know 
you. 

S0LVI.  You  would  make  me  very  happy  if  you 
would  take  it. 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  II 

LjOT.  Then  I  will,  and  thank  you.  [Gives  him  her 
hajid.]     How   lovely   it   is ! 

S0LVI  [lozuerijig  his  voice].  Do  you  never  go  for  a 
walk  by  yourself  in  the  hraun? 

LjOT.     Why  do  you   ask  ? 

S0LVI.  You  know  the  pretty  spot  by  the  old  roan 
tree;  it  is  not  more  than  a  good  ten  minutes'  walk 
from  here.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  go  there 
sometimes  on  Sundays. 

LjOT  [blushes].     I  don't  know  — 

S0LVI.  I  shall  be  there  all  day  Sunday.  Good-bye, 
Ljot. 

LjOT   [confused].     Good-bye. 

S0LVI.  I  shall  be  there  at  sunrise,  and  I  shall  be 
there  when   the   sun   goes   down.     [Exit  to   the  left.] 

[Enter  Sveinungi,  hurriedly.] 

SvEiNUNGi.     Who  was  it  that  went  just  now  ? 

Indridi.     Is  he  gone  ?     It  was  S0lvi. 

Sveinungi.     What  did  he  want  here  ? 

Indridi.     He  got  a  cup  of  milk. 

Sveinungi  [to  Ljot].  It  seemed  to  me  he  was 
talking  to  you.     What  have  you  there  .'' 

Ljot.     He  gave  me  a  bird's  skin. 

Sveinungi.  Pshaw !  You  should  have  made  him 
keep  it  himself. 

Ljot.     There  was  no  harm  meant. 

Sveinungi.  Einar  could  have  brought  you  down 
one  just  like  it,  if  you  had  cared  for  it.  Why  are  you 
blushing  so  ? 

Ljot.  I  did  not  think  you  would  be  so  angry  be- 
cause  I   took   the   bird's   skin. 

Sveinungi.  I  can't  bear  him,  that  stone-picker! 
He  roves  from  place  to  place  like  a  tramp.     Let  him 


12     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

dare  to  set  his  nets  for  you!  Give  me  the  creature, 
and  I'll  hand  it  back  to  him  the  next  time  he  comes; 
for  he's   sure  to   come. 

LjOT.     I  can  burn  it  myself,  if  you  grudge  me  the 
keeping  it.     [Goes  in.] 

SvEiNUNGi  [talking  in  the  doorway].     And  then  you 
get  angry  to  boot.     [To  Indridi.]     I  see  you  have  un- 
done all  the  strappings. 
Indridi.     Yes. 

SvEiNUNGi.     Where  is  Helgi  ? 
Indridi.     He  went  to  the  mill. 
[Enter  Helgi  from  the  left.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  There  he  comes.  Then  you  can  do 
what  I   told   you.     [Goes  in.] 

Helgi.     Anything  amiss  ?     The  master  seemed  cross. 
Indridi.     That's  nothing. 
Helgi.     Is  S0lvi  gone  .? 

Indridi.  Yes.  Let's  get  through  with  this.  You 
go  into  the  storehouse  and  take  the  things  as  I  hand 
them  to  you. 

[They  carry  the  hreadstuffs  into  the  storehouse.  Einar 
appears  in  the  door  of  the  smithy.] 

Einar.     H'm,   I   feel  I'm  getting  old.      There  was 
a  time  when  I  could  forge  three  nails  in  one  heating, 
and  now  it's  a  hard  rub  getting  through  with  one. 
Indridi.     We  can't  be  young  more  than  once. 
Einar.     And  we  can't  cast  the  slough  of  old  age, 
as  they  could  once  upon  a  time. 
•Indridi.     Would  you  care  to  ? 

Einar.  I  don't  know.  I  almost  think  these  new 
times  are  not  for  me.     [Enter  Frida.] 

Frida.  Einar,  I  was  to  call  you  to  breakfast.  [Runs 
against  Sveinungi,  who  is  coining  out.] 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  13 

SvEiNUNGi.  There,  there  !  Why,  you  have  brought 
it  all  under  cover  and  the  ropes  in  the  shed.  That's 
fine.  Now,  Helgi,  when  you  have  eaten,  you  can  go 
and  begin  to  cut  turf.  The  others  will  join  you  when 
they  have  had  their  sleep.  {Lozvering  his  voice.]  Einar, 
will  you  ask  Ljot  to  come  out  t  I  want  to  have  a  little 
talk  with   her. 

Einar.  I  will.  [Einar  and  Frida  go  in.  Svei- 
NUNGi  locks  the  drying-shed  and  looks  into  the  storehouse, 
pretending   to   be   very   busy.] 

{Enter  \^]OT  from  the  house. \ 

Ljot.     Here  I  am,  father. 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  did  not  hear  you.  [Smiles.]  You 
step  as  lightly  as  a  young  foal.  You  are  not  hurt  at 
what  I  said  a  moment  ago  ?  It  was  only  for  your  own 
good.  I  won't  have  any  shiftless  straggler  around 
here  making  eyes  at  you.  The  parish  can  gossip  about 
something  else.  [Ljot  goes  to  the  fence,  resting  her 
hands  on  it.]  But  that  was  not  what  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you  about.  [Goes  to  her.]  You  know  Arne,  the 
farmer  at  Skrida.  You  have  seen  his  son  Halfdan. 
What  do  you  think  of  him  ? 

Ljot.     I  have  seen  him  only  a  few  times. 

SvEiNUNGi.  There  are  two  brothers.  The  older 
one  is  married  and  is  going  to  take  the  farm,  but  Half- 
dan  is  most  like  his  father.  You  should  see  the  way 
their  place  is  kept.  Their  yard  is  nearly  as  big  as 
this,  and  there  are  long  stretches  where  the  grass 
stands  so  high  that  it  falls  over.  It's  as  fine  a  sight  as 
I  have  ever  seen.  We  stopped  there,  Jorunn  and  I, 
for  a  full  hour,  on  our  way  back  from  town,  and  there 
was  no  lack  of  welcome.  Can  you  guess  what  we  talked 
about .? 


14     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

LjoT.     No. 

SvEiNUNGi  [laughs].  You  can't  ?  Arne  asked  me 
whether  I  would  have  his  son  Halfdan  for  a  son-in-law. 

LjOT.     And  what  did  you  say  ? 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  said  I  had  nothing  against  it  —  quite 
the  contrary.  I  should  be  content  if  you  had  a  hus- 
band like  him,  and  we  are  getting  old,  your  mother 
and  I.  We  don't  know  when  death  may  strike  us. 
It  may  come  at  any  time,  and  I  should  like  to  see 
the  man  who  is  to  take  my  place  when  I  am  gone. 

LjOT.     I  don't  think  you  are  getting  old. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Oh,  yes,  I  feel  it.  Sometimes  when 
I  want  to  use  this  or  that  for  my  work  I  find  that  I 
have  clean  forgotten  where  I  put  it.  That  could  never 
have  happened  when  I  was  young;  there  was  not  a 
thing  that  slipped  my  mind.  But  what  do  you  say, 
Ljot  ?  Your  mother  thinks  as  I  do,  so  it  lies  solely 
with  you  whether  you  will  accept  this  happiness  or 
not. 

Ljot.     I   don't  think   I   care  for  that   happiness. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  should  Weigh  your  words  well  be- 
fore you  speak.  Perhaps  you  fancy  there  will  be  a 
wooer  like  Halfdan  coming  every  day.  But  you  don't 
mean  that;  you  only  mean  that  he  must  come  and 
speak  for  himself. 

Ljot.     I  am  so  young,  father. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  are  past  nineteen.  There  are 
many  girls  who  marry  at  seventeen,  and  you  have  been 
so  well  taught  that  you  can  readily  take  your  place  at 
the  head  of  a  household.  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of 
you  there,  that's  sure.  And  you  will  have  your  mother 
near  you,  for  it  is  understood,  of  course,  that  you  and 
Halfdan  stay  here  with  us.     You  will  have  your  bridal 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  1 5 

now  in  the  fall,  and  next  spring  you  can  take  over  the 
farm. 

LjOT.     But  I  scarcely  know  him  at  all ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  Your  mother  did  not  know  me,  and  I 
can't  see  but  that  we  two  have  lived  happily  together 
all  these  years.  It  is  not  always  those  who  marry  for 
what  they  call  love  who  are  happiest.  Arne  and  I  are 
friends  from  old  times,  and  I  have  as  good  as  given 
him  my  word. 

[Enter  Jorunn  from  the  house.] 

LjOT  [straightening  herself].  You  should  not  have 
done  that  without  speaking  to  me. 

SvEiNUNGi.  What  has  come  over  you  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  go  right  against  the  will  of  your  parents  ?  I 
can  tell  you  one  thing,  if  it  is  this  tramp  you  are  think- 
ing of,  it  shall  never  come  to  -pass.  Not  as  long  as  I 
live.     [Goes  in.] 

Jorunn.  Your  father  was  angry.  What  were  you 
talking   about  ? 

LjOT.     He  wants  me  to  marry  a  man  I  don't  know. 

Jorunn.  Does  he  ?  You  cannot  say  of  Halfdan 
that  he  is  a  man  you  don't  know. 

LjOT.     We  have  never  spoken  a  word  to  each  other. 

Jorunn.  Yet  he  has  been  here  several  times. 
Once  he  stayed  overnight.  Besides  you  have  heard 
him  spoken  of,  and  you  know  his  people.  Everybody 
knows  the  Hofstad  people. 

LjOT.  Father  has  given  his  word  w^Ithout  asking 
me.     He   had   no   right   to   do   that. 

Jorunn.  You  have  worked  yourself  up,  Ljot.  I 
don't  understand  you.  Can  it  really  be  that  you  have 
promised  yourself  to  some  one  without  letting  your 
parents  know  it  ? 


16     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

LjoT.     I  have  not. 

JoRUNN.  You  need  not  hide  anything  from  me. 
If  you  have  given  your  word,  you  must  keep  it. 

LjoT.     I  told  you  that  I  have  not. 

JoRUNN.  You  could  not  tell  your  old  mother  a 
falsehood  !  But  if  you  are  free  and  not  bound  by  any 
promise,  this  puzzles  me.  Halfdan  is  young  and  a 
capable  man,  and  his  father  is  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  respected  farmers  in  the  countryside. 

LjOT.  But  I  don't  care  for  him.  You  can't  mean 
that  I  should  marry  a  man  I  don't  care  for.  [Leans 
over  the  fence.] 

JoRUNN.  Once  you  are  married  you  will  come  to 
care  for  him.  [Goes  to  her.]  It  is  a  great  step  you  are 
about  to  take.  Weigh  your  words  well,  so  that  you 
may  not  rue  them.  Be  careful  not  to  thrust  away 
happiness  when  she  reaches  out  her  hand  to  you,  or 
there  may  come  a  day  when  you  will  repent.  You 
must  know  that  your  parents  wish  nothing  but  what 
is  good  for  you. 

LjOT  [zvith  tears  in  her  voice].  It  seems  to  me  you 
are  against  me,   both  you   and   father. 

JoRUNN  [stroking  her  hair].  I  believe  you  are  hiding 
something  from  your  mother.  I  think  I  know  what  it 
is.  You  were  very  much  pleased  with  the  bird's  skin 
you  got  to-day.  [Ljot  is  silent.]  The  winter  your 
father  asked  me  in  marriage  there  came  to  my  home  a 
man  who  used  to  go  from  farm  to  farm  doing  odd  car- 
penter jobs.  One  evening  I  carried  his  coffee  to  him 
where  he  was  at  work.  He  had  a  big  chest  standing 
there  that  he  kept  his  tools  in.  I  can  remember  it 
plainly;  it  was  yellow.  I  stood  waiting  for  him  to 
finish  his  coffee  so  that  I  c         '    '     the  cup  back,  when 


THE   HRJUN  FARM  1/ 

he  took  out  of  the  chest  a  work-box  —  the  prettiest 
thing  I've  ever  seen.  It  was  of  dark  brown  wood, 
the  hd  round,  with  pictures  of  animals  carved  on  it. 
He  made  me  a  present  of  it,  and  when  I  was  about  to 
go,  he  asked  me  for  a  kiss,  but  I  would  not  give  it  to 
him. 

LjOT.     You  never  told  me  about  this. 

JoRUNN.  He  .was  a  good-looking  man,  with  big 
brown  eyes.  Well,  when  your  father  came,  my  father 
and  mother  both  wanted  me  to  become  his  wife.  It 
was  not  altogether  easy  for  me,  but  I  would  not  go 
against  their  wishes.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  please 
them,  and  besides  the  other  man  had  never  asked  me 
straight  out. 

LjoT.     But  he  was  the  one  yoii  cared  for. 

JoRUNN.  Perhaps  I  thought  so  at  the  time.  [Si- 
lence.] He  went  away  on  the  night  he  heard  that  I 
was  promised  to  your  father.  A  year  after  I  married 
your  father,  he  was  drowned  —  some  thought  he  had 
taken  his  own   life. 

LjOT.     Maybe  that  was  your  doing. 

JoRUNN.  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing  to  your 
mother ! 

LjOT.     Don't  be  angry  with  me,  mother. 

JoRUNN.  A  man  who  cannot  bear  his  fate  is  not 
worth  much.  I  should  not  have  been  happy  as  his  wife, 
and  I  could  not  wish  for  a  better  man  than  your  father. 
When  two  people  live  together  a  whole  lifetime  and 
have  an  honest  will  to  do  what  is  right  by  each  other, 
they  will  come  to  care  for  each  other,  as  the  years  go 
by.  [Silence.]  I  have  told  you  this  so  that  you  may 
think  it  over,  but  if  you  feel  in  your  own  heart  that  it 
is  right  to  go  against  the  wi-^hes  of  your  parents,  then 
c 


l8     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

yoii  will  have  to  do  so.  [LjOT  is  silent.]  You  say 
nothing,  my  child  ?  I  have  tried  as  best  I  could,  in 
my  poor  way,  to  do  what  seemed  my  duty.  I  cannot 
give  my  daughter  any  other  or  better  advice.  When 
the  hour  of  sorrow  comes,  as  it  must  come  to  you  too, 
there  is  nothing  else  that  can  bring  you  peace. 

LjoT.     I  will  do  as  you  wish. 

JoRUNN.  I  always  knew  that  I  had  a  good  daughter. 
[Strokes  her  hair.]  How  glad  your  father  will  be! 
This  will  be  a  great  day  for  him,  and  you  will  never  re- 
gret that  you  did  as  your  parents  wished.     [Goes  in.] 

[LjoT  stands  alone.] 

[Enter  Einar  and  Frida  from  the  house.] 

EiNAR  [to  Frida].  You  can  start  the  bellows.  I 
hope  the  fire  has  not  gone  out.     [They  go  into  the  smithy.] 

[Enter  Helgi  from  the  house.  He  goes  into  the  smithy 
and  comes  out  again  with  a  turf-spade  in  his  hand.] 

Einar  [in  the  door].     Shall  you  be  home  for  dinner.? 

Helgi.  No,  the  others  will  bring  it  to  me.  [Exit 
to  the  left.] 

[Enter   SvEiNUNGi.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Are  you  here  ?  Won't  you  come  in 
and  talk  to  your  father.?  [Patting  her  shoulder.]  This 
is  the  happiest  day  in  my  life  since  the  time  I  got  your 
mother.  [They  go  in.  Enter  Jakobina  with  a  plate 
of  chicken-feed  in  her  hand ;  goes  to  the  door  of  the  smithy.] 

Jakobina.  Is  Frida  there  ?  Can  you  spare  her  while 
she  runs  over  to  the  chickens  for  me  with  their  food  .? 

Einar.  Yes,  indeed.  [Frida  goes  zvith  the  chicken- 
feed.] 

Jakobina  [sits  down  on  the  horse-block].  I  had  such 
a  queer  dream  last  night.  I  thought  I  was  standing 
out  there  in  the  yard,  and  I  saw  a  giant  come  striding 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  1 9 

across  the  hraun.  I  saw  him  stop  right  there  —  he 
stood  with  arms  stretched  out  and  bent  down  over  the 
house. 

ACT    II 

[A  grass-grown  yard,  some  rocks  partly  sunk  in  the  ground. 
In  the  foreground,  farthest  to  the  right,  a  tent.  In- 
the  background,  to  the  left,  the  farm-house.  In  the 
outskirts  of  the  yard  a  sheephouse  with  the  roof  and 
part  of  the  walls  in  ruins.  Beyond  it,  the  "hraun,'' 
a  lava-field  stretching  for  miles,  studded  with  jutting 
rocks  and  lava  formations .\ 

[It  is  the  evening  of  the  same  day.] 

The  Servants  [seated,  singing]. 

God,  the  power  unending 
Rests  with  Thee  alone. 
Cherubim  are  bending 
Low  before  Thy  throne. 
From  Thy  Heaven  hear  me ! 
Weak  and  soiled  am  I, 
Wounds  and  sorrows  sear  me. 
Fainting  I  draw  nigh. 
Is  there  then  another  way  ? 
Sorrow's  rising  hills  may  they 
Not  reach  up  to  heaven,  pray  ? 
Help  me  —  lest  I  die. 

[They  cover  their  eyes  in  prayer.     Silence.] 

JoRUNN   [uncovers  her  eyes].     The  peace  of  God   be 

with  us.     [The  Servants  rise  and  shake  hands.] 

JoRUNN  [patting  Frida's  cheek].     Now  you  must  not 

be  afraid  of  the  earthquake  any  more.     When  we  trust 


20     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

in  Him,  no  harm  can  befall  us.  [Gathers  the  hymn- 
hooks.]  Please  take  the  books  back  to  the  tent,  Ljot; 
it's  a  little  too  early  yet  to  go  in.  [LjOT  goes  with  the 
books.]  And  you  may  fetch  the  shoes  I  was  sewing. 
I  left  them  in  there. 

[Some  sit  on  the  rocks,  others  squat  in  the  grass.  Only 
SvEiNUNGi  remains  standing.] 

Ljot  [coming  from  the  tent].  Here  are  the  shoes, 
mother. 

JoRUNN.     Thank  you,  daughter. 

[Ljot    lies   down    in   the   grass,    gazing   out   over   the 

"hraun."] 

Indridi.     Did  you  hear  the  church-bells  ringing  ? 

EiNAR.     I  did  not  hear  them. 

JoRUNN.  I  did.  They  rang  of  themselves.  [Si- 
lence.] 

Indridi.     Where  were  you,  Thora,  when  the  shock 

came  ? 

Thora.     In  the  kitchen. 

Indridi.     It's  your  week,  isn't  it  ? 

Thora.  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  out,  for  the 
whole  floor  heaved  under  me,  so  that  I  was  thrown 
right  against  the  wall,  and  you  should  have  seen  me 
when  I  came  out  —  all  black  from  the  falling  soot. 

Jon.     And   the   rest   of  you  —  where  were   you  ? 

Bj0RG.  We  were  sitting  in  the  badslofa,  sorting 
wool. 

Rannveig.  It  felt  as  if  some  one  was  shaking  the 
roof  and  trying  to  pull  up  the  whole  house. 

Indridi.  We  were  just  about  to  leave  our  work  and 
run  home  to  hear  how  you  had  fared,  but  then  I  thought 
they  would  be  sure  to  send  us  word  [looking  askance  at 
SvEiNUNGi]   if  anything   had   happened.     Besides,   we 


rilE   HRAUN  FARM  21 

wanted  to  get  enough  turf  cut  while  we  were  at  it  so 
that  we  should  not  have  to  go  back  another  time. 

Jon.  But  I  must  say  that  when  I  began  working 
again,  it  went  against  me.  It  was  cutting  into  a  living 
thing  —  like  skinning  a  live  animal. 

Rannvetg.     Ugh,  yes. 

Jon.  And  the  place  where  we'd  cut  turf  last  year 
looked  like  an  ugly  scar. 

[Sile7ice.\ 

JoRUNN.  Did  you  meet  anybody  when  you  came 
home  from  work  ? 

Indridi.     No. 

JoRUNN.  And  no  outsider  has  been  here  this  after- 
noon. They  don't  come  when  they  are  wanted.  I 
ought  to  have  sent  one  of  you  to  the  next  farm  to  find 
out  how  things  were  there,  anyway. 

Jon.     I  can  easily  go  yet,  if  mistress  wants  me  to. 

JoRUNN.  Oh,  no,  it's  getting  late.  I  hope  we  shall 
have  no  bad  tidmgs  from  any  one. 

Indridi.     I  hope  so,  too. 

JoN.  I'm  afraid  the  Vik  farm-house  has  fallen.  It 
is  both  old  and  poorly  built  —  nothing  like  ours. 
{Silence.] 

EiNAR.  You  should  have  seen  the  hawks,  Jorunn, 
right  after  the  shock.  They  kept  flying  back  and  forth, 
just  as  they  do  when  they're  warding  off  a  foe  from  their 
nest. 

Jorunn.     They  were  frightened. 

EiNAR.  And  no  wonder.  Great  pieces  of  rock  came 
tumbling  down  into  the  creek.  The  sheep  out  on  the 
heath  yonder  huddled  together  in  flocks,  looking  like 
old  snow. 

Jon.     Then  you  were  out  hunting. 


22     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

EiNAR.  No,  I  was  not  hunting.  I  was  looking  at 
the  hawks,  wondering  whether  one  could  get  at  them 
by  going  down  in  a  rope. 

[Silence.] 

JoRUNN.  What  about  the  boy,  Sveinungi  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  let  him  stay  with  the  sheep  all  night? 

Sveinungi.     Certainly.     He  can  sleep  to-morrow. 

JoRUNN.  I  was  only  thinking  he  might  be  afraid 
to  be  alone. 

Sveinungi.     He's  no  more  afraid  than  grown  people. 

JoRUNN.  I  saw  he  took  both  the  dogs  with  him. 
{Silence.\ 

Helgi.  There  was  a  man  walking  across  the  hraun 
a  little  while   ago.     Who  can   it   be  ^. 

Indridi.     I  saw  him  too. 

Jon.     It  was  S0lvi.     He  carried  his  gun.     [Silence.] 

LjOT.     How  still  it  is  on  the  hraun. 

EiNAR.  I  thought  you  were  listening  for  something, 
while  you  lay  there  quiet  as  a  mouse.  I  thought  you 
were  listening  for  the  earthquake. 

Frida.  Can  one  hear  the  earthquake  when  it  is 
coming  .? 

Rannveig.  Are  you  afraid  ?  Yes,  sometimes  it 
can  be  heard  a  little  before  the  shock.  They  say  it 
sounds  like  the  clatter  of  hoofs  from  many  hundred 
horses. 

Bj0rg.  To  me  it  sounded  like  the  whistling  of  the 
wind. 

Jorunn.  You  should  sit  down,  Sveinungi.  You'll 
get  tired  standing. 

Sveinungi.     I  am  not  tired.     [Silence.] 

Frida.  What  if  the  earth  should  open  up  right  here 
where  we  are  sitting  .'' 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  .         23 

Rannveig.     It  won't.     Who  told  you  that  it  might  ? 

Frida.     Jakobina  said  so. 

Rannveig.  You  must  not  hsten  to  all  she  says; 
she  talks  so  much. 

Jakobina.  I  say  nothing  but  what  is  true.  At 
the  time  of  the  last  great  earthquake  the  ground  cracked 
and  made  a  fissure  many  miles  long;  I  saw  it  myself. 
The  earth  opened  her  mouth  to  breathe. 

Einar  [to  Frida].  Don't  be  afraid.  I  have  a  black 
lamb  —  do  you  remember  it  ^  —  with  white  feet. 
When  I  get  it  home  in  the  fall,  I  will  give  it  to 
you. 

Jakobina  [facing  the  "hraiin"].  Not  one  of  you 
knows  the  hraun  as  I  do.  Can  you  tell  me  why  the 
hollows  out  there  are  never  filled  with  snow  ?  Have 
you  ever  seen  the  snow  falling  fast  enough  to  cover 
even  the  rims  around  them  ^.  It's  the  earth  blowing 
her  breath  against  it.  The  earth  sets  traps  for  men ; 
the   earth    is    a   man-eater. 

JoRUNN  [to  Jakobina].  You  must  not  frighten  the 
child.     [Silence.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Wasn't  it  you,  Jakobina,  who  said  that 
sometimes  blood  comes  on  the  window-panes.?  It 
bodes  ill,  they  say. 

Jakobina.  Why  do  you  ask  .''  There  is  no  one  here 
who  has  seen  it,  is  there  ? 

SvEiNUNGi.     Never  mind  why  I  ask. 

Jakobina.  Well,  if  I  must  say  it,  it  is  a  sign  that 
some  one  in  the  house  is  going  to  die  soon. 

Sveinungi.  Or  it  might  bode  ill  to  the  farm  itself, 
maybe. 

Jakobina.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Sveinungi.     That  it  might  be  doomed. 


24 


SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 


JoRUNN.  Indeed,  it  means  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.     It's  nothing  but  a  silly  superstition. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Not  that  I  believe  in  it,  but  look  at 
the  windows.     Don't  they  look  as  if  they  were  wet 

with  blood  .^ 

JoRUNN.     It's  the  sun  shining  on  them. 

SvEiNUNGi.  And  see  the  gables,  how  white  they  are. 
They  don't  look  whiter  from  the  fields  down  yonder 
when  you  spread  a  cloth  over  them  to  call  me  home. 

Indridi  [lowering  his  voice].  Did  you  see  the  sheep- 
cot  fall .? 

Thora.     Yes,  it  happened  just  as  we  came  out. 

Indridi.     What  did   Sveinungi  say  ? 

Thora.     He  said  nothing. 

Indridi.     But  he  told  us  to  move  out  here. 

Thora.     No,  it  was  Jorunn  who  made  us  do  it. 

Sveinungi  [to  Jorunn].  I  did  not  tell  you  that 
when  I  came  into  the  badstofa,  right  after  the  shock, 
our  old  clock  had  stopped  running. 

Jorunn.     Was  it  broken  ? 

Sveinungi.  No,  when  I  touched  the  pendulum  it 
started  again,  but  the  place  was  still  as  death  when  I 
entered.  The  grass  on  the  roof  cast  a  shadow  over  the 
skylight.     It  was  as  quiet  as  when  my  father  lay  dead. 

Jorunn.  I  think  we  had  better  go  and  lie  down. 
There's   nothing  gained   by  staying  here   any  longer. 

Sveinungi.  I  can't  see  that  there  was  any  need  of 
moving  out,  but  you  had   your  way,  Jorunn. 

Jorunn.  I  feel  sure  that  they  have  done  the  same 
on  all  the  other  farms.  We  must  be  thankful  it  is 
summer,  so  that  we  can  stay  outdoors. 

Sveinungi.  Must  we  be  thankful  ?  So  you  give 
thanks   that   my   work   is   ruined. 


THE   HRAUN  FARM  25 

JoRUNN.  We  must  take  what  comes,  whether  good 
or  evil,  and  trouble  may  help  us  to  remember  all  the 
things  we  have  neglected  to  give  thanks  for. 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  don't  know  but  that  I  have  always 
done  my  duty.  I  have  built  all  the  sheep-cots;  I 
have  fenced  in  the  land  and  looked  after  it  as  best  I 
could.     I  demand  justice  of  Him  up  there. 

JoRUNN  [rising].  I  won't  listen  to  such  talk.  Did 
you  buy  the  land  from  Him,  perhaps  ?  And  what  did 
you  have  to  pay  with  that  was  not  His  already.? 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  needn't  mock  me.  You  can  walk 
all  over  the  yard  and  cut  your  handful  of  grass  with 
your  scissors  wherever  you  like ;  it  grows  thick  as  w^ool 
everywhere,   and  it's  all  my  work. 

JoRUNN.  Was  it  you  who  ruled  the  hraun  for  thou- 
sands of  years  so  that  it  did  not  swallow  up  the  bit  of 
ground  you  are  standing  on,  which  you  call  yours  ? 
[Goes  into  the  tent.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Which  I  call  mine !  [Stamping  his 
foot.]  It  is  mine  !  I  bought  the  land  from  Him  up 
there  with  my  work.     [The  Servants  rise.] 

Jon.  I  believe  the  worst  is  over  and  that  we  shall 
be  let  off  with  the  fright. 

Indridi.     I  hope  so. 

Bj0RG.  You  can  never  tell.  Remember  what  hap- 
pened the  time  when  more  than  threescore  farm-houses 
fell  in  one  night. 

Thora.     It  must  have  been  dreadful. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Now  you  must  all  go  into  the  tent. 
[The  Servants  go  in.] 

Jakobina.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  something  dread- 
ful were  to  happen  to  the  farm.  [Goes  into  the  tent. 
SvEiNUNGi  Stands  quite  still  a  little  zvhile,  then  walks  a 


26     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

jew  steps,  pauses,  lakes  a  fezv  more  steps,  and  again 
stops.] 

[Enter  L}OT  from  the  tent.] 

LjoT.  Are  you  not  coming,  father?  Mother  told 
me  to  ask  you  to  come  in. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Why  doesn't  she  he  down  ?  She  need 
not  wait  for  me. 

LjOT.     We  are  so  frightened,  father  —  all  of  us. 

[Enter  Jorunn  from  the  tent.] 

JoRUNN.     It's  getting  cold. 

LjoT.     Yes,  it  is  cold. 

Jorunn.     The  sun  has  set. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Why  are  you  coming  out  again,  Jorunn  ? 
Can't  you  sleep  ? 

Jorunn.     No,  I  can't  sleep. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Do  you  remember  the  night  you  thought 
I  was  lost  in  the  snowstorm  ?  A  light  was  burning  in 
the  upper  window.  To  see  it  was  better  than  meeting 
a  human  being,  and  when  the  dogs  began  to  bark  be- 
hind the  door,  it  was  just  as  if  the  house  itself  were 
speaking  —  calling  out  its  joy.  It  sounded  better  to 
me  than  a  human  voice,  and  when  I  stepped  into  the 
hall,  the  darkness  seemed  to  put  its  arms  around  me. 
Never  have  I  had  so  sweet  a  welcome,  not  even  when 
my  daughter  was   a  little   child. 

Jorunn.  Ought  we  not  to  go  in,  Sveinungi  ?  It's 
getting  late.     You  too  must  go  in   now,  Ljot. 

LjOT.     I  am  only  waiting  for  father. 

Jorunn.  Do  you  hear  that,  Sveinungi .?  Ljot  is 
waiting  for  you,  and  the  servants  can't  sleep  either  be- 
fore you  go  in. 

Sveinungi.  I  am  not  going  to  stay  in  the  tent  to- 
night.    I  am  going  home. 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  2 J 

JoRUNN.     You  don't  mean  that ! 

LjOT.     But,  father  dear  ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  won't  let  any  foohsh  fear  drive  me 
out  of  my  house,  and  it  is  nothing  but  a  foohsh  fear. 
The  earthquake  will  not  come  so  suddenly  but  that 
I  shall  have  time  to  get  out.  It's  impossible.  Be- 
sides, the  badstofa  will  hold.  It's  well  built,  though 
it's  old. 

JoRUNN.  Do  you  think  the  badstofa  will  hold  if 
there  should  come  a  big  earthquak-e .?  You  cannot 
mean  that ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  It  is  not  at  all  sure  there  will  be  an- 
other shock.  It's  only  a  fancy  that  the  earthquake 
must  needs  keep  on  once  it  has  begun.  I  believe  it  is 
over;  I  feel  it.  [During  the  last  speeches  the  Servants 
have  been  coming  out  of  the  tent.]  What  are  you  running 
out  for  .''     Go  in,  all  of  you. 

Jakobina.  I  must  tell  master  about  the  dream  I 
had.  It  was  last  night.  I  thought  I  was  standing 
out  In  the  yard  and  saw  a  giant  coming  across  the  hraun. 
He  walked  with  long,  unsteady  strides  [she  takes  a  few 
steps  forward ;  her  voice  sounds  distant  and  threatening], 
and  seemed  to  grope  as  if  he  were  bhnd.  Then  I  saw 
him  standing  right  by  the  house  —  with  arms  stretched 
out ;  he  bent  down  over  the  farm  and  stood  there  like  a 
stone  cross.     [Makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  zvith  her  arms.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Did  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  about  your 
dream  ? 

JoRUNN.  I  beg  of  you,  Sveinungi,  that  you  do  not 
stay  at  the  house  to-night.  It  would  be  tempting 
God. 

Sveinungi.  It's  rather  He  who  is  tempting  me. 
If  I  ran  away,  it  would  serve  me  right  to  have  the  house 


28     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

fall  down.  [Pointing  to  the  house.]  There  it  has  stood 
waiting  for  me  every  evening  as  far  back  as  I  can  re- 
member; I  have  seen  the  windows  flaming  in  the  sun. 
I  have  seen  them  wet  with  rain.  I  have  seen  them  white 
with  frost.  I've  been  with  it  ever  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  have  climbed  on  the  roof  as  I  climbed  on  my  father's 
shoulders.  When  I  stood  on  the  ridge,  it  seemed  it 
had  lifted  me  up  to  let  me  see  better.  No,  Jorunn,  even 
if  I  knew  the  earthquake  to  be  coming,  I  should  go 
home.  Nor  is  it  any  wonder  that  I  long  to  get  into 
my  own  bed.  I  am  old  now,  and  I  have  waked  up  there 
almost  every  morning  of  my  life.  I  have  gone  to  bed 
so  tired  and  worn  out  that  I  could  barely  stand  on  my 
feet  and  have  waked  up  young  and  strong.  I  have 
been  ill  and  have  lain  there  watching  the  sunbeams 
flitting  across  the  floor,     [^v^i-f^vnci  walks  homeward.] 

Jorunn.  Are  you  going  home  ?  [Following  him 
hurriedly.]     Whatever  happens,  your  fate  shall  be  mine. 

SvEiNUNGi  [stops  and  looks  hack].  Do  you  hear  that  ? 
She  is  not  afraid,  my  wife.  [SvEiNUNGi  and  Jorunn 
walk  homeward.] 

LjOT.  How  can  you  do  it,  father  ?  [Walks  a  jew 
steps  away  jrom  the  others  and  remains  standing  there.] 

Jakobina.  God  be  with  you,  Jorunn,  and  with  you, 
Sveinungi.  You  have  been  good  to  me,  these  nineteen 
years.     [Goes  into   the  tent.] 

[Silence.] 

Helgi.     There,  they  went  in. 

Bj0RG.     Yes,   they   are  in   there  now. 

Jon.  I  think  we  had  better  go  and  lie  down,  since 
there  is  nothing  we  can  do. 

Indridi.     No,  we  can  do  nothing. 

Thora.     It  will  be  a  long  night. 


rilE   II R  J  UN  FARM 


29 


Rannveig.  Poor  Ljot.  [The  Servants  walk  slowly 
into  the  tent.] 

[EiNAR  and  Ljot  remain.     Silence.] 

EiNAR  [goes  to  Ljot].  I  wisli  I  could  make  you  happy 
as  easily  now  as  when  you  were  a  Httle  girl. 

Ljot  [struggling  with  her  tears].  Father  does  not 
care  for  me  at  all.  He  does  not  think  of  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

EiNAR.  Your  father  cares  for  you,  no  doubt  of  that, 
but  he  is  beside  himself  with   the  earthquake. 

Ljot.  You  don't  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 
[In  sudden  fear.]  If  only  something  dreadful  does  not 
happen  ! 

EiNAR.  We  must  trust  to  the  Lord  to  keep  us  all. 
Won't  you  too  try  to  lie  down  ^. 

Ljot.     I   can't   sleep. 

EiNAR.  Perhaps  you  would  rather  stay  here  a  little 
while.  Let  me  bring  a  shawl  for  you ;  it  is  getting 
cold.  [Goes  into  the  tent.  LjoT  stands  motionless 
looking    out   over    the    " hrau7i.^'] 

EiNAR  [coining  from  the  tent].  They  are  asleep  in 
there  already.  Won't  you  put  the  shawl  around  your 
shoulders  ? 

Ljot.     I  am  not  cold. 

EiNAR.  Then  I'll  spread  it  over  one  of  the  rocks 
for  you  to  sit  on.  They  are  wet  with  dew.  [Spreads 
it  over  the  stone.]  There!  What  did  you  have  in 
mind  when  you  stood  there  looking  out  over  the  hraun? 

Ljot.  I  was  thinking  of  an  old  tale  Jakobina  once 
told  me.  It  was  about  a  young  girl.  She  went  out  on 
the  hraun  with  bare  feet  to  meet  her  sweetheart,  and 
wherever  she  stepped   the  moss  grew  under  her  foot. 

EiNAR.     That's  a  pretty  story.     I  can  tell  you  one, 


30    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

too,  If  you  care  to  hear  it.  It  might  help  to  quiet  you 
a  Httle. 

LjOT  [takes  his  hand].     You  are  so  good. 

EiNAR  [sits  down;  relates].  In  olden  times,  they 
say,  there  was  an  underground  stream  that  ran  straight 
through  the  country  from  south  to  north  and  was 
meant  as  a  sign  of  truce  between  land  and  sea.  It 
happened  that  a  cross-eyed.  Ill-natured  shark  was  try- 
ing to  tempt  a  young  whale  to  swim  that  stream  from 
end  to  end.  The  whale's  name  was  Spraytall.  He 
was  the  handsomest  of  all  the  young  whales  and  could 
shoot  three  jets  of  water  at  once.  The  shark  boasted 
that  he  had  swum  through  the  stream  himself,  but  of 
course  it  was  only  real  fishes  that  could  do  It.  Spray- 
tall  felt  stung  on  behalf  of  his  kin,  and  as  the  shark  had 
told  him  that  there  were  openings  here  and  there  In  the 
roof  of  this  underground  way,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
try  his  luck,  trusting  that  he  could  hold  his  breath 
from  one  opening  to  another.  But  It  fell  out  otherwise. 
Spraytall  never  came  back.  The  last  ever  heard  of 
him  was  that  some  swans,  In  their  flight  over  the  hills, 
had  seen  a  jet  of  blood  spurting  out  of  the  ground. 

The  whales  were  in  a  rage  and,  as  they  thought  in 
their  grief  that  the  land  had  broken  truce,  they  goaded 
the  sea  to  wreak  vengeance  upon  it.  Are  you  listen- 
ing ?     [LjOT  nods  her  head.] 

One  night  a  dreadful  storm  broke.  The  sea  came 
rushing  over  the  land,  fell  upon  the  rocks  like  a  mon- 
ster, and  tore  them  to  pieces.  The  next  morning  thou- 
sands of  seafowls'  nests  were  wrecked,  and  where  green 
fields  had  been  there  were  black  sands.  Now  there 
was  sore  need  of  wise  counsel.  A  shrewd  old  raven  said 
that  the    fire  should  be  roused.     All  the  birds  agreed 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  3 1 

that  the  raven  had  spoken  well,  but  none  dared  do 
the  deed.  The  raven  was  made  judge,  and  decided 
that  the  spider  should  undertake  the  ticklish  task,  and 
that  the  eagle  should  carry  her  to  the  crater. 

They  gave  the  spider  ten  fat  blue-flies  to  take  with 
her.  She  spun  herself  well  and  firmly  under  some 
strong  feathers,  and  off  they  went.  They  flew  ovei 
deep  dales,  over  dreary  wastes,  and  over  glaciers.  In 
the  evening  they  came  to  the  fire-mountain,  and  there 
they  rested  overnight,  but  they  did  not  sleep  much, 
for  the  fire  was  snoring  like  a  giant  down  below  in  the 
earth.  Early  the  next  morning  the  eagle  flew  to  the 
top  of  the  mountain.  The  spider  made  fast  her  thread 
and  spun  herself  slowly  down  Into  the  crater.  It  was 
dark  down  there,  and  the  heat  and  sulphur  made  her 
eyes  smart,  but  she  could  see  enough  to  make  out  that 
the  fire  lay  sleeping  under  a  very  thin  black  coverlet. 
The  spider  knew  nothing  but  the  finger-language, 
and  she  moved  her  legs  Incessantly,  telling  fully  and 
truly  all  about  the  havoc  that  was  wrought,  and  urging 
the  fire  to  come  to  the  rescue  lest  the  whole  land  be 
swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  Yet  the  fire  did  not  stir. 
Then  the  spider  bent  her  legs  up  under  her  and  let  her- 
self fall  all  the  way  down  to  the  fire.  She  stretched  out 
one  leg  and  poked  the  black  coverlet.  From  that  mo- 
ment she  couldn't  remember  anything  till  she  was  lying 
at  the  rim  of  the  crater  again.  She  peeped  down  and 
saw  that  the  fire  had  thrown  off"  the  coverlet  and  was 
red  and  blazing.  Then  the  spider  understood  that  her 
task  was  done.  Everybody  knows  how  the  fire  had 
its  reckoning  with  the  sea  and  filled  up  whole  fjords 
with  lava  and  ashes.  [S0lvi  is  seen  approaching  from 
the  hraun.] 


32     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

LjOT  [rising].  You  must  tell  me  that  story  over 
again  some  time.     I  could  not  listen  rightly. 

EiNAR  [rising].  Who  is  that  coming  so  late.? 
[Looking.]     Now  I   know  him;  it's  S0lvi. 

LjOT.  I  saw  him  awhile  ago  walking  over  the 
hraiin. 

EiNAR.     He   may   bring   us   news. 

[Enter  S0lvi  carrying  a  gun  and  with  a  game-hag  on 
his  back.] 

S0LVI.     Good  evening. 

EiNAR.     Good  evening. 

S0LVI.  How  good  it  seems  to  meet  people !  You 
have  moved  out,  of  course  ? 

EiNAR.     You  are  walking  late. 

S0LVI.  You  will  have  to  take  the  earthquake  as 
my  excuse.  This  has  been  a  bad  day.  What  has 
happened  here  at  your  place .? 

EiNAR.  One  of  the  outbuildings  came  down  and  a 
part  of  the  yard  fence. 

S0LVI.  At  Hoi  one  wall  of  the  house  fell.  The 
folks  barely  got  out.     [Lays  dozvn  his  gun.] 

EiNAR.     Was  anybody  hurt .'' 

S0LVI.  No.  I  could  not  stay  there  any  longer. 
I  saw  your  house  standing,  and  that  was  a  relief. 
[Looking  at  Ljot.]     Yet  I  had  to  come. 

EiNAR.  What  do  you  think  ?  Do  you  believe  the 
earthquake  is  over?  [S0LVi  fails  to  answer;  looks  at 
Ljot.] 

Ljot.  My  father  and  mother  are  sleeping  in  the 
house. 

S0LVI.     Why  in  the  world  are  they  doing  that ! 

Ljot.  We  were  ready  to  go  to  bed,  but  father  would 
not  come  into  the  tent.     Mother  begged  him  to  stay, 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  33 

but  it  was  no  use,  and  when  father  went  back  to  the 
house,    mother  went   with    him. 

S0LVI.  But  the  buildings  may  fall  at  any  moment 
if  there  should  be  another  shock. 

EiNAR.  Svemungi  knows  that  as  well  as  we  do, 
but  he  would  not  let  the  house  stand  forsaken. 

S0LVI.  We  must  hope  that  no  harm  will  come  to 
them.  So  that  is  why  you  are  still  up.  Have  the 
others  been  in  bed  long .? 

LjOT.     No,  they  went  in  a  little  while  ago. 

EiNAR.     May  I  look  at  your  gun  } 

S0LVI.     As  much  as  you  like. 

EiNAR.     Is  it  loaded  .'' 

S0LVI.  It  is.  [To  LjOT.]  You  are  not  angry  with 
me  for  coming  so  late .?  It  seemed  an  eternity  till 
Sunday. 

LjoT.     I  knew  you  would  come. 

S0LVI.  You  knew  it !  Won't  you  sit  down  ^  I 
have  something  to  show  you.  [Ljot  sits  down.  S0lvi 
opens  the  game-bag ;  takes  from  it  a  large  fern.]  I  found 
this  out  on  the  hraun.  Is  it  not  beautiful .?  [Sits 
dozvn.]  Look,  the  stem  is  no  thicker  than  a  hair, 
while  the  leaf  can  easily  hide  your  whole  face.  [Holds 
it  up  before  her  face.]  It  trembles  when  your  breath 
touches  it. 

Ljot.  You  have  pulled  it  up  by  the  roots.  May 
I  have  the  moss  that  came  with  it .?  [S0lvi  loosens 
the  moss  from  the  roots.  Ljot  lays  it  in  her  hand ;  smiles.] 
When  it  withers,  I'll  keep  it  in  my  shoes. 

S0LVI.  Will  3'Ou  keep  it  in  your  shoes  }  See  these 
two  small  ferns  on  one  root.  They  look  like  two  slim 
hands.     [Looks  at  Ljot.] 

EiNAR    [puts    the   gun    aside].     It's    a    fine    one.     It 


34     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

must  have  cost  a  good  deal.  Perhaps  you  bought  it 
yourself  abroad  ? 

S0LVI.  I  did.  [Lays  down  the  fern.  To  LjOT.]  If 
you  have  time,  you  can  plant  it  to-morrow.  It  won't 
hurt  It  to  lie  overnight  in  the  wet  grass. 

EiNAR  [goes  to  S0LVi].     How  long  were  you  abroad  .? 

S0LVI.     Seven  years. 

EiNAR.     That's  a  long  time.     [Sits  dotvn.] 

LjOT.  My  father  was  angry  with  me  for  keeping 
your  bird's  skin. 

S0LVI.  Was  he  ?  And  I  was  thinking  of  asking  you 
to  visit  me  at  Hoi  some  day  before  I  leave, 

LjOT.     I  hardly  think  I  dare  to. 

S0LVI.  You  could  take  Einar  with  you.  It  is  not 
much  more  than  an  hour's  ride,  and  I  have  a  number 
of  things  I  should  like  to  show  you,  —  petrified  tree- 
trunks  that  I  have  dug  out  of  the  earth,  in  which 
you  can  see  plainly  every  bud  and  shoot,  and  stone  slabs 
with  impressions  of  flowers  and  leaves  that  lived  thou- 
sands of  years  ago.     Should  you  like  to  see  them  .? 

LjOT.     I  should  like  it  ever  so  much. 

S0LVI.  I  have  some  rocks,  too,  baked  by  fire  and 
furrowed  by  ice.  If  you  knew  all  the  tales  they  tell 
me  !  They  lay  bare  to  me  things  that  are  hidden  from 
every  one  else.     [A  zvhirring  of  wings  is  heard  far  away.] 

Einar  [stands  up,  pointing  with  his  finger].  Look, 
there  is  a  flock  of  ducks  flying  over  the  hraun.  [Stands 
gazing.] 

S0LVI  [in  a  low  voice].  It  made  me  so  happy  to 
see  you.  This  evening,  when  the  sun  was  setting,  I 
reached  out  toward  it.     I  did  the  same  when  I  saw  you. 

Einar  [risijig].  They're  flying  unusually  low.  There 
they  alight  —  I'll  get  my  gun. 


THE  II R  J  UN  FARM  35 


m 


S0LVI    [rising].     I'll    lend    you    mine.     [Ilcmds    hi 
the  gun.]     It  will  carry  a  distance  of  a  hundred   and 
thirty  feet. 

EiNAR.     What  size  shot  have  you  ? 

S0LVI.     Duck-shot. 

EiNAR.  Ljot,  you  don't  mind,  do  you .?  I  shall 
not  be  gone  long.  If  they  rise,  I'm  not  going  after 
them.     [Exit.]     [LjoT  rises.] 

S0LVI  [goes  to  her].  My  star  must  be  in  the  heavens 
to-night. 

Ljot.  You  must  not  think  that  I  was  sitting  up  so 
late  because  I  was  waiting  for  you  —  I  saw  you  walk- 
ing over  the  hraun  —  but  we  shan't  talk  about  that. 

S0LVI.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  came  home  from 
abroad  .?     It  was  for  your  sake. 

Ljot  [sits  down].     That  is  not  true. 

S0LVI  [sits  down].  One  night,  the  last  winter  I  was 
away,  I  must  have  been  dreaming,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  awake.  I  had  come  back  home  and  was 
walking  on  the  hraun.  The  hraun  was  covered  with 
ashes.  As  I  walked,  I  suddenly  fell  into  a  deep  cleft 
and  kept  on  falling  and  falling.  At  last  I  found  myself 
lying  on  the  bottom,  unable  to  stir.  Death  came  and 
sucked  the  life  out  of  my  eyes  and  held  it  in  her  hand 
like  a  tiny  flame.  Suddenly  a  woman  stood  beside 
me  dressed  in  moss.  She  pleaded  for  me  so  long  that 
death  gave  her  my  life.  She  looked  like  you.  It  was 
you.  Don't  you  know  that  you  hold  my  life  in  your 
hands  ?     [They  rise.] 

Ljot.  I  think  I  shall  go  in.  It  is  hard  to  tell  when 
Einar  will  be  back.  When  he  is  out  hunting  he  forgets 
everything. 

S0LVI.     I  love  you,  Ljot!     You  have  not  been  out 


36     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

of  my  thoughts  since  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  Every- 
thing reminds  me  of  you  —  the  sun,  the  sky  — 

LjOT.  I  too  have  been  happy  in  seeing  you  and  talk- 
ing with  you.  [Stands  still  as  death.]  This  morning, 
right  after  you  had  gone,  my  father  told  me  that  on 
his  way  home  from  town  he  had  seen  his  old  friend,  — 
and  my  father  wanted  me  to  promise  myself  to  the 
son  of  his  old  friend,  but  I  would  not,  because  I  was 
thinking  of  you.  Then  my  mother  came  and  talked 
to  me  —  and  I  gave  in.     I  could  not  do  anything  else. 

S0LVI.  Why  did  I  not  speak  before !  You  won't 
feel  hurt  at  what  I  say,  Ljot .?  You  must  not  let  your 
parents  decide  your  life.     That  is  for  you  to  do. 

Ljot.  You  don't  know  my  father.  If  he  thought 
I  was  standing  here  talking  to  you,  I  can't  tell  what 
he  would  do. 

S0LVI.  I  am  convinced  your  parents  have  but  one 
wish,   and   that  is  for  your  happiness. 

Ljot.  I  don't  know.  My  mother  does  not  say  much 
about  happiness;  she  does  her  duty  —  and  I  know 
mine.     [Tur7is  tozvard  the  tent.] 

S0LVI.     Are  you  going  ? 

Ljot.  It  is  better  that  we  two  should  not  meet 
again  —  it  would  only  cause  us  suffering.  [Moves 
azi'ay.] 

S0LVI  [jollozving  her].  You  don't  realize  what  you 
are  about  to  do  !  You  will  be  committing  a  terrible 
crime  —  against  all  the  wonderful  days  that  life  meant 
us  two  to  have  together.  For  you  do  care  for  me,  Ljot, 
don't  you  .?  [Ljot  is  silent.]  I  thought  you  cared  for 
me.  When  you  spoke  to  me  this  morning  you  blushed, 
and  I  thought  it  was  your  heart  that  gave  me  its  prom- 
ise.    The  joy  of  it  overwhelmed   me. 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  37 

LjoT.  It  matters  little  whom  I  care  for.  I  have 
given   my  word. 

S0LVI.  You  think  it  your  duty  to  keep  your  word, 
but  there  is  another  duty  that  is  far  greater,  and  that 
is  to  open  your  arms  to  happiness  when  it  comes. 
There  is  no  greater  duty.  It  is  the  meaning  of  our 
existence.  You  must  feel  that,  you  who  have  grown 
like  a  flower  out  of  the  earth  ! 

LjOT.  It  is  not  only  that  I  have  given  my  word. 
If  I  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  I  should  break  my 
promise,  but  I  know  that  it  would  grieve  my  parents. 
This  morning  father  said  to  me  that  it  was  the  happiest 
day  of  his  life  since  he  got  my  mother,  and  I  know  it 
was  true. 

S0LVI.  You  must  tell  your  parents  that  you  cannot 
keep  your  word.  You  must  do  it  for  my  sake.  [Kneel- 
ing.]    You  are  the  only  one  I  care  for  in  all  the  world. 

LjOT.  I  can't  deal  such  a  blow  to  my  father.  No 
other  living  being  has  been  so  good  to  me  as  my  father. 

S0LVI  [rising].     You  do  not  care  for  me  at  all. 

LjOT.  You  think  it  is  easy  for  me !  [With  tears 
in  her  eyes.]  I  own  a  spring  —  I  cleanse  it  every  Sat- 
urday.    I  have  told  it  your  name.     [Goes  into  the  tent.] 

S0LVI.  You  are  going!  [Turns  away  from  LjOT, 
sits  down  on  one  of  the  rocks,  covers  his  face.] 

LjOT  [stands  silent  for  a  long  ,time,  then  goes  over  to 
him  and  takes  his  hands  from  his  face].  I  love  you. 
[S0LVI  takes  her  face  hetzveen  his  hands  and  kisses  her.] 
[Enter  Jakobina.] 

Jakobina  [coming  slowly  from  the  tent].  We  are 
not  all  asleep  in  there.     [S0LVi  and  LjOT  rise.] 

S0LVI  [holding  LjOT  by  the  hand].  Let  us  go  out  on 
the  hraun  and  look  for  Einar. 


38     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIFE  AUTHORS 

LjOT  [runs  to  Jakobina,  puts  her  arms  around  Jako- 
bina's  neck  and  holds  her  close],  I  know  that  you  care 
for  me.     [Goes  to  S0lvi  and  takes  his  hand.]     Come  ! 

[They  go  toward  the  " hraun."  Jakobina  stands  still, 
following  them  with  her  eyes,  then  shakes  her  head  and 
turns  toward  the  tent.] 


ACT  III 

[The  farm-house  is  in  ruins.  Only  the  farther  side  of 
the  "badstofa"  is  standing.  It  looks  like  a  dark 
cavern.  The  servants  have  gathered  near  the  wreck- 
age;  they  are  bare-headed,  the  men  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves. SvEiNUNGi  is  standing  near  the  dark  open- 
ing.    It  is  night.] 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  Jon].     You  dare  not  go  in. 

Jon  [peering  in  the  gloom].  I  don't  know.  There's 
only  one  post  that  holds  the  roof,  and  it  may  snap  at 
any  moment. 

SvEiNUNGi.  It  won't.  It  is  drift-timber,  which 
never  rots. 

JoN.  And  besides,  it  stands  aslant;  the  slightest 
push  would  make  it  go  with  a  crash,  and  there  would 
be  no  getting  out  alive  if  the  heavy  roof  came  down. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  are  afraid.  Is  there  anybody 
else  who  dares  ? 

JoRUNN.     You  cannot  ask  any  man  to  go  in  there. 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  Jon].  It  would  take  you  but  a  mo- 
ment to  bring  out  those  few  things.  There's  my  tall 
chest  —  you  know  where  it  stands  —  and  my  old  clock  ; 
you  can  unscrew  it  from  the  wall  with  your  knife. 

Jon.     I  am  not  going  in  there. 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  39 

SvEiNUNGi.  Get  drunk  and  brag  —  that  you  know 
how  to  do,  all  of  you.     [Starts  into  the  ruins.] 

Jon.     Is  master  going  in  there  } 

SvEiNUNGi.  Do  you  think  I  will  let  my  things  be 
rumed,  because  you  are  a  coward  .? 

Jon.  Then  I  will  go  with  you.  It's  easier  for  two. 
[SvEiNUNGi  and  Jon  disappear  from  view.] 

JoRUNN.  No  matter  what  happens  to  that  man,  he 
will  never  learn  to  bend.  [Goes  to  the  ruins ;  looks  in.] 
Can  you  see  anything  in  there.?  Is  it  not  too  dark.'' 
[Sile7ice.] 

[SvEiNUNGi  and  Jon  appear,  carrying  the  tall  chest.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Indridi  and  you,  Helgi,  come  here  and 
take  it  from  us.     Set  it  over  there. 

[SvEiNUNGi  and  Jon  disappear  again.] 

Indridi  [to  Jorunn,  as  the  men  carry  the  chest  out  into 
the  open].     Can  we  leave  it  here  .? 

Jorunn.     Yes.     [She  peers  into  the  ruins  again.] 

[Enter  Jakobina /rom  the  directio7i  of  the  tent.] 

Jakobina  [goes  to  Jorunn,  lays  her  hand  07i  Jorunn's 
shoulder].  I  must  feel  that  you  are  indeed  safe  and 
sound.  [Stroking  her  arm.]  When  you  went  home,  I 
was  afraid  that  you  would  never  come  out  of  that  house 
again.  I  thought  your  husband  must  be  struck  with 
bhndness. 

Jorunn.  You  don't  know  where  Einar  and  Ljot 
have   gone.? 

Jakobina.     I  saw  Ljot  going  out  on  the  hraun. 

[SvEiNUNGi  and  Jon  appear  carrying  the.  clock.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  will  have  to  be  a  little  careful, 
the  glass  is  broken.  [Steps  out  into  the  open.  To  Jon.] 
I  dare  say  you  have  had  enough  of  this. 

Jon.     I  can't  say  it  was  any  too  cheerful  in  there. 


40     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  the  men].  You  can  carry  the  clock 
into  the  tent;  the  dampness  here  might  be  bad  for  it. 
And  you,  Bj0rg,  go  and  get  a  blanket  to  spread  over 
the  chest. 

[Exeunt  Servants,  Bj0RG  running,  Indridi  and  Helgi 
carrying  the  clock,  ] akobin A  follozving  them.] 

JoRUNN.  You  are  lucky,  Sveinungi,  that  you  have 
not  come  to  grief  with  your  foolhardiness. 

Sveinungi.  It  is  nothing  but  my  duty  to  care  as  best 
I  can  for  what  is  mine.  I  have  risked  my  life  before 
in  a  good  deal  worse  dangers  than  this.  But  I  must 
send  some  one  to  look  after  the  boy.  He  may  have 
lost  all  the  sheep.     Will  you  go,  Jon  .? 

Jon.     I  will. 

Sveinungi.     You  had  better  drive  the  sheep  home. 

Jorunn.  And  if  you  should  see  Ljot  and  Einar, 
tell  them  to  hurry. 

Jon.     I  will.     [Exit.] 

Sveinungi.     Where  are  they  ? 

Jorunn.     They  are  out  on  the  hraun. 

[Enter  Bj0rg,  carrying  a  blanket.] 

Bj0RG.     Here  is  the  blanket. 

Sveinungi.  Why  did  they  go  out  there.''  [Takes 
the  blanket,  goes  to  the  chest,  and  runs  his  hand  over  it.] 
Here  it's  been  bruised.  [Throws  the  blanket  over  it.] 
I  did  not  think  you  would  have  all  this  to  go  through. 
[Takes  a  long  breath.]  It  is  pretty  hard  when  one  has 
grown  as  old  as  I  am  to  see  one's  work  destroyed. 

Jorunn.     That  is  true. 

Sveinungi.  My  only  comfort  is  that  I  shall  have 
a  capable  man  to  help  me  put  up  the  buildings  again. 
[Gazijig  over  the  " hrau7i."]  What  can  it  be  that  is 
keeping  Ljot  out  there  ?     Has  she  been  gone  long  ? 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  41 

Rannveig.     I  don't  know. 

S.VEINUNGI,  I  hope  she  has  not  gone  down  into 
one  of  the  fissures.  One  can't  tell  what  may  happen. 
The  walls  might  cave  in,  or  they  might  close  overhead. 

[Enter  Indridi  from  the  direction  of  the  tent.] 

Indridi.  Einar  and  Ljot  are  coming  now.  We 
could  see  them  from  the  tent. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Are  they  coming  ?  [Goes  toward  the 
background.]     Yes,   Ljot  has  seen  us;  she  is  running. 

JoRUNN.  She  must  have  thought  we  w^ere  buried 
under  the  ruins. 

SvEiNUNGi  [looking].  There  is  a  third  person  with 
them.     Who  can  it  be .? 

Rannveig.     So  there  is. 

Indridi.     I  believe  it's  S0lvi. 

SvEiNUNGi.  What  business  has  he  out  there  at 
night } 

Indridi.     It's  hard  to  tell ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  do  hope  that  Ljot  has  not  been  talk- 
ing to  that  fellow. 

[Enter  HELGi/ro;n  the  direction  of  the  tent.]     [Silence.] 

[Enter  LjOT,  running.] 

Ljot  [puts  her  arms  around  her  mother].  I  was  so 
frightened  ! 

JoRUNN.  Were  you  frightened  ?  You  are  quite  out 
of  breath  with  running. 

SvEiNUNGi  [smiling].  Have  you  no  greeting  for 
your  father  .? 

Ljot.     Dear,  dear  father !     [Embraces  him.] 

SvEiNUNGi.     You  were  glad  when  you  saw  us  .? 

Ljot.  I  was  so  glad  that  I  don't  know  }/et  what  I 
am  saying.  I  was  afraid  you  had  been  caught  under 
the  ruins.      I  thought  that  was  to  be  my  punishment. 


42     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi  [stroking  her  hair].  Have  you  done  any- 
thing you   should   be  punished   for  ? 

LjOT  [taking  his  hand].  Be  fond  of  me,  father. 
Be  very,  very  fond  of  me  !     [Enter  Einar  and  S0Lvi.] 

EiNAR.  Thank  God,  you  are  safe !  Then  you  had 
time  to  get  out  ? 

JoRUNN.     No,  we  were  In  there. 

LjoT.  Were  you  in  there  ?  [Goes  to  the  ruins.] 
How  weird  it  looks  ! 

SvEiNUNGi  [goes  to  the  ruins].  It  is  only  the  one 
post  that  holds  it  all.  If  that  had  snapped,  you  would 
never  have  laid  eyes  on  us  again. 

EiNAR  [looks  into  the  ruins].  It's  a  miracle  It  didn't 
break. 

JoRUNN.  Yes,  if  it  had  not  been  God's  will,  we 
should  not  be  here  now. 

EiNAR  [turns  from  the  ruins].  It  was  not  any  too 
cheerful  out  on  the  hraun  either.  The  place  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  become  alive. 

SvEiNUNGi.  What  in  the  world  made  you  go  out 
there .? 

Einar.  There  was  a  flock  of  ducks  flying  over  the 
hraun,  and  I  wanted  to  try  a  shot  at  them. 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  Ljot].  And  wh\-  did  you  go  with 
him  ? 

Ljot.  I  was  not  with  him.  S0lvi  and  I  stayed  be- 
hind. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Do  you  sit  alone  with  a  stranger  in 
the  middle  of  the  night?  [To  S0LVi.]  And  you,  why 
are  you  here  at  this  time  ?  I  will  not  have  you  go 
hunting  on  my  land  without  asking  my  leave. 

S0LVI.     I  was  not  hunting  on  your  land. 

SvEiNUNGi.     But  you  are  picking  up  stones,  and  I 


THE   HRAUN  FARM  43 

forbid  you  to  take  as  much  as  a  single  pebble  from  my 
land.     Now  you  know  that. 

LjOT.     Why  do  you  say  that,  father  .? 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  can  go  into  the  tent,  Ljot.  You 
have  nothing  to  do  here. 

Ljot.     I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

SvEiNUNGi.  What  is  it  ?  [Ljot  is  silent.  To  the 
Servants.]  You  can  go.  To-morrow  I  shall  have  a 
talk  with  you,  Einar,  which  you  will  remember. 

EiNAR.     It  was  not  m}^  fault. 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  the  Servants].  Go !  What  are  you 
waiting  for  ?     [Exeunt  Servants.] 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  Ljot].  Now,  what  is  it  you  have  to 
say  to  me .? 

S0LVI.  I  have  come  here  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  your 
daughter. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Has  not  my  daughter  told  you  that 
she  is  betrothed  .'' 

Ljot.  I  have  told  him  everything.  I  never  cared 
for  Halfdan  —  you  know  that,  father,  and  I  will  not 
be  his  wife. 

JoRUNN.  Ljot,  it  has  never  happened  yet  that  one 
of  my  kin  has  broken  faith.  If  you  do  it,  you  will  be 
the  first. 

SvEiNUNGi.  And  you  have  not  reckoned  with  your 
father.  It  does  not  lie  altogether  with  yourself  to 
break  your  word.  Do  you  think  you  can  make  a  fool 
of  me.''  [To  S0lvi.]  It  does  not  make  you  my  son- 
in-law  that  you  have  trifled  with  my  daughter; 

S0LVI.  It  was  no  mere  chance  that  we  two  found 
each  other.  Only  for  Ljot's  sake  have  I  stayed  so 
long  in  these  parts.  I  came  here  to-night  to  find  out 
how  you  had  fared ;  I  could  not  help  it. 


44     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  feel  proud  that  you  have  coaxed 
a  young  girl  to  break  her  word.  You  think  yourself 
very  brave,  and  you  have  taken  advantage  of  her  when 
she  was  beside  herself  with  fear.  You  have  come  like 
a  thief  in  the  dead  of  the  night. 

S0LVI.  I  love  your  daughter.  There  is  nothing 
wrong  in  that,  and  I  am  proud  and  happy  that  she  has 
given  me  her  heart. 

SvEiNUNGi  [to  Ljot].  So  that  is  what  you  have  done. 
I  dare  say  you  have  met  him  before  and  more  than  once 
behind  my  back. 

Ljot.     Not  once. 

SvEiNUNGi.  And  straightway  you  are  ready  to 
break  your  word.  You  knew  that  Halfdan's  father  is 
the  best  friend  I  have. 

Ljot.     You  must  forgive  me,  father ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  And  you  knew  I  had  sent  him  word 
that   everything  was   settled. 

Ljot  [takes  his  hand].  Do  you  remember,  father, 
when  I  was  so  little  that  I  had  to  put  my  arms  around 
your  knee  ?  Then  you  never  said  no  when  I  asked  for 
anything.     I  am  still  your  little  girl. 

SvEiNUNGi.     Let  me  go  ! 

Ljot.  You  do  care  for  me,  father.  I  know  of  no 
one  who  has  been  so  good  to  me  as  you.  You  have 
given  me  everything  that  I  call  my  own.  You  must 
give  me  my  happiness  ! 

SvEiNUNGi.     Let  go  my  hand  ! 

JoRUNN.  I  understand  that  S0lvi  is  very  dear  to 
you,  my  child,  but  this  comes  upon  us  unawares,  and 
it  has  been  a  terrible  night  for  us  all.  [To  S0LV1.] 
Could  you  not  have  waited  before  speaking  to  Svei- 
nungi  ? 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  45 

S0LVI.  T  cannot  help  it  that  it  has  come  in  this  way. 
I  would  have  waited  if  I  could. 

JoRUNN.  I  mi^ht  perhaps  have  seen  my  way  to  put 
in  a  good  word  for  you  two.  [To  Sveinungi.]  You 
won't  be  hard  on  your  daughter  !  If  we  had  been  lying 
under  the  ruins  now,  she  would  have  had  no  need  to 
ask  us.     To-night  we  must  not  be  merciless. 

Sveinungi.  Who  is  this  man  }  I  don't  know  him, 
nor  do  I  know  his  people. 

S0LVI.  My  father  was  a  farmer  like  yourself.  Had 
he  been  living,  you  two  might  have  become  friends. 

Sveinungi  [inlerrupting].  The  only  thmg  I  know 
about  you  is  that  you  go  about  pickmg  up  stones  like 
the  children. 

S0LVI.  You  speak  slightingly  of  my  stones,  but 
the  knowledge  I  gain  from  them  can  bring  me  more 
money  than  you  ever  made  on  your  farm,  and  it  can 
bring  me  fame. 

Sveinungi.     What  kind  of  knowledge  is  that  ? 

S0LVI.  Those  stones  teach  me  to  know  my  country 
and  how  it  has  been  built  by  fire  and  water  and  ice. 
They  give  me  an  opportunity  of  finding  out  new  links 
in  laws  that  are  eternal  and  mightier  than  all  mankind. 

Sveinungi.  Indeed  !  Since  you  are  so  passing  wise, 
you  ought  to  have  told  me  days  ago  that  a  great  earth- 
quake would  come  to-night.  That  I  could  have  under- 
stood ;  but  it  seems  that  you  knew  as  little  there  as  the 
rest  of  us.     I  believe  old  Jakobina  is  wiser  than  you. 

S0LVI.  I  don't  know  how  wise  she  is,  but  I  do  know 
of  people  who  go  through  life  as  if  they  were  blind. 
They  may  have  been  living  in  the  same  place  all  their 
lives,  and  yet  they  have  never  seen  the  landscape  they 
live  with  ^neither  its  beauty  nor  its  peculiar  character. 


46     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi.  They  haven't  ?  [Points  toward  the 
" hraun."]  I  have  been  out  there  in  a  snowstorm  so 
heavy  that  I  could  scarcely  see  a  hand  before  me,  and 
shall  I  tell  you  how  I  found  my  way  ?  I  knew  where  I 
was  by  feeling  before  me  with  my  hands.  [Laughs.] 
No,   I   have  never  seen   the   kraun! 

S0LVI.  I  did  not  say  that  you  were  among  the 
blind,  and  I  am  sure  you  are  human  enough  not  to 
force  your  daughter  to  marry  against  her  will.  It 
would  not  give  you  much  joy  to  feel  that  you  had  made 
her  unhappy  for  her  whole  life.  If  you  think  you  do 
not  know  me  well  enough,  you  can  find  out  all  you  wish 
from  myself  or  from  others. 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  have  no  desire  to  learn  anything  about 
you,  and  you  need  not  worry  about  my  daughter.  She 
will  stay  here  with  me. 

S0LVI.  Ljot  is  not  a  child  any  longer.  She  can 
decide  for  herself. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Perhaps  you  think  she  can't  live  with- 
out you.  \To  Ljot.]  If  you  care  as  much  for  him 
as  he  imagines,  I  will  let  you  prove  it.  I  will  let  you 
choose  between  him  and  mc.  If  you  choose  him,  then 
I  have  no  daughter  any  more. 

Ljot.     You  don't  mean  to  force  me  to  such  a  choice ! 

SvEiNUNGi.  Can  you  for  a  single  moment  be  in 
doubt  about  whom  to  choose  of  us  two  —  him  or  your 
old  father  ^. 

Ljot  [kneeling].     He  is  so  unutterably  dear  to  me. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Get  up  !  I  don't  want  to  see  you  lying 
like  a  dog  at  my  feet. 

Ljot   [rising].     Then   you   have   no   daughter. 

S0LVI.     I  knew  you  would  not  fail  me  ! 

JoRUNN.     You  had  better  give  your  consent,  Svei- 


THE  IIRAUN  FARM  47 

nungi,  since  it  cannot  be  otherwise.     I  cannot  do  with- 
out my  only  child. 

SvEiNUNGi  [goes  to  Ljot].  You  are  quite  free,  Ljot ; 
I  will  not  try  to  force  you,  but  when  you  have  thought 
it  over,  you  will  not  leave  your  father  and  mother  for 
the  sake  of  a  stranger.  You  are  my  only  child,  and 
you  have  been  the  light  of  my  eyes  since  you  were  a  little 
tot.  When  I  came  home  from  work  I  was  never  too 
tired  to  listen  to  what  you  had  to  say.  When  you 
stroked  my  cheek  it  was  like  warm  summer  rain  falling 
on  my  face.  It  will  be  lonely  and  empty  here  if  you 
go.     You  cannot  do- it. 

Ljot.     Father,  it  is  you  who  drive  me  away. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  must  listen  to  me.  It  has  always 
been  my  intention  that  you  should  take  the  farm,  and 
yesterday  when  you  promised  to  marry  Halfdan  it 
seemed  to  me  that  all  my  wishes  had  been  fulfilled. 
I  was  happy,  and  not  only  for  your  sake,  but  fully  as 
much  for  the  farm.  Yet  you  would  leave  it  now  in  the 
midst  of  misfortune.  Look  about  you  !  Not  a  single 
building  standing.  Can  you  let  your  old  father  sit 
here  alone  and  forsaken  .?  You  might  as  well  kill  your 
father.  And  for  whom  should  I  build  it  up  again  if 
you  are  not  to  have  it .?  It  might  as  well  be  left  to 
rot  on  the  ground. 

Ljot.  You  don't  know,  father,  how  much  I  care 
for  him.  I  used  to  dream  often  that  the  mountains 
fell  so  that  I  could  see  the  land  beyond.  To-night  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  mountains  fell. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  are  a  willful  girl.  [To  S0Lvi.] 
Could  you  think  of  taking  over  my  farm,  perhaps  .'' 

S0LVI.     I  could  not  — 

SvEiNUNGi  [interrupting].     Do  you  two  believe  that 


48     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

you  can  cow  me  ?  [Pointing  to  the  ruins.]  There  is  a 
chest  of  drawers  in  there  that  Ljot  keeps  her  clothes 
in.  I  will  have  nothing  of  hers  in  my  house.  [7*0 
S0LVI.]  Will  you  go  in  there  with  me  and  bring  it 
out .? 

S0LVI.     I  have  nothing  to  do  in  there. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  can  go,  Ljot.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
you.  [Goes  over  to  the  ruins ;  stands  resting  his  hands 
on  the  walls. \ 

S0LVI  [takes  Ljot  hy  the  hand  quietly].  It  is  better 
that  we  leave  your  parents  alone  for  a  little  while. 
[Exeunt.] 

JoRUNN.  You  will  have  to  give  your  consent, 
Sveinungi.  You  say  yourself  that  all  you  have  done 
has  been  for  your  daughter. 

Sveinungi  [turns  to  Jorunn,  passing  his  earth-stained 
hand  over  his  forehead].  Did  you  understand  what  I 
was  about  to  do  ?  I  wanted  to  get  him  into  the  ruins, 
and  then  I  meant  to  give  the  post  a  shove. 

Jorunn.     God  forgive  you,  man  ! 

Sveinungi.  Now  we  two  must  hold  together.  If 
we  two  are  of  one  mind,  I  believe  Ljot  will  give  in.  You 
must  try  to   bring  her  to  her   senses. 

Jorunn.  They  are  very  fond  of  each  other.  It 
warmed  my  heart  to  see  them.  It  brought  back  the 
days  of  my  own  youth.  I  feel  sure  it  would  be  a  sin 
to   try   to   part   those   two. 

Sveinungi.     And  you  say  that ! 

Jorunn.  I  think  it  was  her  fate  to  meet  this  man. 
She  has  always  been  a  good  and  dutiful  daughter. 

Sveinungi.  And  it  was  you  who  went  with  me  into 
the  house  !     Have  you  turned  against  me  —  you  too  .f* 

Jorunn  [goes  to  him].     You  must  not  make  the  evil 


THE   IIRAUN  FARM  49 

worse  than  it  really  Is.  The  man  looks  as  if  he  came 
of  good  people,  and  we  Have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  he  is  a  capable  man.  Even  if  we  can't  keep  Ljot 
here,  as  we  had  hoped  to  do,  she  will  certainly  find  time 
to  come  and  see  us  once  in  a  while,  and  we  shall  have 
that  to  look  forward  to. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  think  only  of  your  daughter.  It 
is  nothing  to  you  if  my  life  work  is  wasted.  I  could 
name  you  many  farms  that  have  been  an  ornament 
to  the  neighborhood  as  long  as  they  have  been  handed 
down  from  man  to  man  in  the  same  family,  but  once 
they  have  passed  into  other  hands,  they  have  been 
tended  in  a  makeshift  way  or  left  to  go  to  rack  and 
ruin  altogether.  You  have  seen  those  old  forlorn 
places,  where  the  site  is  overgrown  with  grass,  and  the 
heather  has  been  allowed  to  spread  all  over  the  yard. 
They  remind  me  of  graves.  I  tell  you  the  truth  :  if 
such  a  fate  were  in  store  for  my  farm,  I  should  wish 
for  nothing  but  to  be  lying  under  the  ruins  myself. 

JoRUNN.  Who  says  that  your  farm  will  not  be  re- 
built !  You  are  not  so  old  that  you  cannot  do  it  with- 
out help.  If  I  know  you  rightly,  you  always  grow 
younger  and  stronger  whenever  there  is  anything  that 
needs  all  your  powers.  In  a  year  or  two  you  will  have 
the  buildings  up  again  every  bit  as  fine  as  before. 

SvEiNUNGi.  Spare  your  wheedling !  What  would 
be  the  use,  even  though  I  got  the  ho-ases  up  again  ] 
When  my  days  are  over,  everything  will  pass  into  the 
hands  of  careless  people.  And  to  think  that  this  should 
happen  only  because  of  a  fleeting  fancy  ! 

JoRUNN.  Did  it  seem  to  you  like  a  passing  whim 
when  Ljot  was  begging  for  your  consent  ?  To  me  it 
seemed  that  she  was  pleading  for  her  life. 

E 


50     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi.  Even  though  this  should  mean  more 
to  my  daughter  than  I  think  it  does,  that  can  alter 
nothing.  It  is  my  right  to  care  for  my  home  and  keep 
it  intact  even  after  I  am  gone.  When  I  am  standing 
out  in  the  hraun  and  looking  toward  home,  the  green 
yard  looks  like  a  spot  of  sunshine. 

JoRUNN.  You  take  it  for  granted  that  none  of  your 
kin  will  ever  reap  the  benefit  of  your  work,  but  your 
daughter  is  not  dead,  though  she  has  chosen  another 
man  than  the  one  you  wanted  her  to  marry.  Why 
should  not  those  two  have  children  .^  They  are  both 
strong  and  healthy,  and  there  is,  after  all,  a  chance 
that  some  day  one  of  their  sons  may  take  over  the 
farm. 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  dare  say  a  son  of  his  would  be  the 
right  man  ! 

JoRUNN.  A  daughter's  son  is  often  more  like  his 
grandfather  than  his  father.  You  know  that  as  well 
as  I. 

SvEiNUNGi.  You  are  like  a  child  playing  with  soap- 
bubbles.  When  one  breaks,  you  are  straightway  ready 
to  blow  a  new  one.  You  can't  make  me  play  at  that 
game.  Even  though  they  should  have  children,  do 
I  know  how  they  would  turn  out .''  And  you  see  it  the 
same  way  yourself,  but  you  are  trying  to  fool  me  into 
giving  my  consent. 

JoRUNN.  What  do  you  gain  even  if  you  have  your 
way  and  part  those  two }  You  may  bring  it  about 
that  your  daughter  becomes  one  of  those  sour  old  maids  ; 
for  you  cannot  mean  to  drag  her  to  the  altar  against 
her  will. 

SvEiNUNGi.  I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  against  me. 
You  wouldn't  mind    leaving  the  farm,  you  could  live 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  51 

with  your  daughter.  You  care  more  for  her  than  for 
me. 

JoRUNN  [her  voice  growing  husky].  Why  do  you  say 
this,  Sveinungi  ?  I  have  never  weighed  my  feehngs 
for  you  two,  nor  do  I  intend  to  do  it.  I  only  know  that 
where  you  are,  there  I  stay  too. 

Sveinungi.  Even  this  very  earth  upon  my  hand  is 
dear  to  me.  I  care  for  it  as  the  old  house-leek  would 
if  she  could  feel.  As  for  the  young  man  whom  you 
thmk  so  much  of,  I  should  have  grudged  him  even  to 
have  the  earth  to  fall  on  his  face.  But  you  were  not 
born  here,  as  I  was.  You  have  not  lived  here  as  a 
child.     You   are   an  outsider. 

JoRUNN.  Am  I  an  outsider !  I  am  grown  too  old 
to  kneel  before  you  as  3^our  daughter  did,  but  if  you 
send  her  away,  I  know,  that  even  though  you  build 
your  house  both  larger  and  finer,  the  room  will  seem 
less  light  to  me,  and  the  smile  will  be  gone  from  my 
face.  Can  you  not  spare  me  the  sorrow  of  losing  my 
only  child  ? 

Sveinungi.  I  thought  you  knew  me  well  enough 
not  to  tease  me  with  your  bootless  prayers.  What  I 
have  said  stands. 

JoRUNN.  I  don't  know  what  gives  you  the  right 
to  be  so  heartless.  You  were  tempting  God  when  you 
went  into  the  house,  but  He  had  mercy  on  you  and 
spared  your  life,  and  the  very  first  thing  you  do  is  an 
act  of  cruelty.     [Bursts  out  sobbing.] 

Sveinungi.     Don't  take  to  crying,  wife. 

JoRUNN  [weeping;  sits  down  on  one  of  the  stones  that 
have  been  torn  from  the  wall  by  the  earthquake].  I  don't 
see  how  I  am  going  to  live  through  it  if  you  send  her 
away. 


52     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIFE  AUTHORS 

SvEiNUNGi  {stands  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  goes 
to  her].  I  understand  that  you  take  this  very  much  to 
heart.  Do  go  into  the  tent  now  and  lie  down.  We 
must  try  to  get  over  this  as  best  we  can. 

JoRUNN  [rising].  I  am  sure  I  have  lost  my  daughter 
forever.     [Weeps.] 

SvEiNUNGi  [takes  her  hands  and  kisses  her  on  the  cheek]. 
I  have  always  said  good  night  to  you  with  a  kiss.  You 
have  been  a  good  wife  to  me.  I  little  thought,  when 
you  went  with  me  into  the  house  that  you  should  cry 
yourself  to  sleep  this  very  night  because  of  me.  [Jo- 
RUNN clings  to  him,  weeping.  Sveinungi  releases  him- 
self suddenly.]  Listen  to  what  I  say.  You  shall  not 
leave  me  this  way.  Now  you  can  go  to  the  young  folks 
and  tell  them  that  I  give  my  consent.  [Moves  a  little 
away.]  But  it  will  be  on  one  strict  condition.  [Jo- 
runn  wipes  her  eyes  on  her  apron.]  They  must  promise 
me  that  if  they  have  a  son,  he  shall  be  brought  up  here 
with  us. 

JoRUNN  [her  face  lighting  up].  I  believe  this  thought 
was  sent  you  by  Him  who  showed  mercy  upon  you  this 
night. 

Sveinungi.  Even  if  it  should  be  their  only  child. 
[Goes  to  JoRUNN.]  And  you  can  tell  them  that  it  is 
only  for  your  sake  I  yield.  Now  you  won't  cry  any 
more  ? 

JoRUNN.  God  bless  you !  How  happy  Ljot  will 
be  !     [Turns  to  go.] 

Sveinungi.  You  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry.  I 
don't  care  to  have  the  young  folks  see  that  you  have 
been  crying.  And  one  thing  more;  S0lvi  must  not 
come  here  until  I  send  him  word.  I  want  to  explain 
to  my  old  friend  how  all  this  has  come  about. 


THE  HRAUN  FARM  53 

JoRUNN.  S0lvi  will  understand.  [Sits  down,  very 
still,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  gazing  straight  before  her.] 
And  the  boy  is  to  be  named  Sveinungi.  [Unconsciously 
she  passes  her  right  hand  back  and  forth  over  the  edge  of 
the  stones.] 

SvEiNUNGi.  Yes,  they  can  well  be  used  again,  the 
old  stones.     Now  you  had  better  go  to  Ljot. 

JoRUNN  [rising,  pats  his  arm].  Yes,  yes,  I  am  going, 
and  I  am  happy.  [Exit.  Sveinungi  stands  for  a  wo- 
ment  looking  after  her,  then  bends  down  over  the  stories, 
examining  them  closely.  He  turns  over  one  stone  —  and 
one  more  — ] 


THE   MERRY   MERRY  CUCKOO  ^ 

BY 

JE ANNETTE   MARKS 


1  Copyright,  1917,  by  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 
For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 
the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


"The  Merry  Merry  Cuckoo"  is  one  of  three  exquisite 
plays  dedicated  to  the  Welsh  National  Theater  by  this 
American  author.  It  vividly  portrays  the  almost 
ultradramatic  quality  of  the  Welsh  mind,  its  deep 
emotionalism,  and  its  love  of  song,  all  of  which  the 
author  has  so  inimitably  caught.  If  "The  Deacon's 
Hat"  and  "Welsh  Honeymoon"  are  read  in  connec- 
tion with  the  present  play,  they  will  show  how  justi- 
fiable was  the  bestowal  of  a  prize  upon  the  author  in 
191 1  by  the  Welsh  National  Theater.  These  com- 
positions have  been  presented  in  various  Little  Theaters, 
colleges,  and  clubs  in  New  York,  Boston,  Minne- 
apolis, and  elsewhere. 


THE    MERRY    MERRY 
CUCKOO 

Characters 

Annie,  the  wife  of  David 
David 

LOWRY  PrICHARD  ]  ^  -77 

).  two  neighbors 
GuTO  Prichard    J 

Morris,  a  young  minister 

ACT   I 

[A  garden.  Cottage  at  back  running  from  right  to  center. 
A  group  of  three  windozvs  in  the  shape  of  a  hay, 
shozving  a  bed  inside  and  an  old  man  lying  on  it. 
A  door  leads  into  cottage.  A  gate  in  fence  on  the 
right  side  leads  to  the  road  and  village  beyond.  All 
of  the  left  side  of  stage  a  garden  and  orchard,  with  a 
path  through  it  to  a  gate  in  wall  at  back;  garden 
wall  to  left,  at  back  over  it  village  chapel  from  which 
the  church  music  comes. 

A  thatched  cottage  with  whitewashed  zcalls.  Ivy  is 
grozving  about  the  doorway,  and  hanging  frotn  the 
thatch  above  the  door;  fuchsia  bushes  on  either  side 
of  door;  trees  to  the  left  in  the  garden,  including 
holly  and  yew;  green  grass;  mountains  beyond 
cottage  and  garden  and  chapel.  In  the  foreground, 
to  right  by  cottage  door,  is  a  washtub. 

57 


58     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

It    is  about    six    o'clock,    the  first    Monday    in    April. 
Towards  end  of  act  the  sun  sets. 

At  rise  of  curtain,  windozus  of  the  cottage  closed,  and 
Annie,  old,  very  plump,  with  sparse  gray  hair 
escaping  from  under  her  white  cap  and  damp  on 
her  forehead  from  her  work,  and  wearing  a  short 
skirt,  apron,  fichu  over  shoulders,  clogs  on  her  feet, 
is  washing.  Church  music  off  left  continues  a 
minute  after  rise  of  curtain.  David  calls  out. 
Annie  leaves  the  tub  ayid  hurries  to  the  windozvs 
to  open  them  from  the  outside.  David,  a  very  old 
man,  with  white  hair  and  thin  face,  is  seen  lying  in 
bed.] 

David  [calling].     Annie,  Annie! 

Annie  [opening  windows].  Aye,  lad  dear,  I  was 
listenin'  for  ye;  yiss,  yiss,  an'  expectin'  ye  to  call. 

David  [sleepily].  I  was  dreamin'  an'  —  dear,  dear, 
what  a  dream  !  It  seemed  like  fifty  years  ago  when  we 
were  married  an',  you  remember,  we  stood  out  there 
in  the  garden  that  first  night.  Are  there  any  violets 
bloomin'  yet .? 

Annie.     Not  yet,  Davy  lad. 

David.     An'  the  marsh  marigolds  ? 

Annie.     I'm  thinkin'  they're  sure  to  be  out. 

David.  An'  that  same  night,  Annie,  do  ye  remember 
we  heard  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 

Annie.  Aye,  lad  darlin',  fifty  years  ago  this  comin' 
week,  an'  a  cuckoo  singin'  to  us  every  spring  since 
then.  [Annie  takes  a  tumbler  from  the  sill  and  gives 
him  a  spoonful  of  medicine.]  Take  this,  dear;  there, 
'twill  be  makin'  ye  better. 

David  [taking  medicine].     An'  well  ? 


THE   MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  59 

Annie.     Yiss,  yiss,  better. 

David.  But  the  cuckoo,  will  the  cuckoo  be  singin' 
soon  ? 

Annie  [words  inconclusive].  Lad,  dear,  no  more, 
orye'll  be  havin'  an  attack  an'  —  Dear  people,  chapel 
is  out,  an'  I  hear  them  on  the  road  ! 

David  [plaintively].  The  Monday  meetin'.  Why 
have  ye  not  been  ^ 

Annie.     Work  is  keepin'  me  home,  lad. 

David.  But,  Annie,  ye've  not  said  a  word  of  the 
cuckoo. 

Annie  [sending  her  voice  up  as  cheerfully  as  she  can]. 
Aye,  the  cuckoo;   yiss,  the  cuckoo  — 

David  [clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands].  Has  it 
come  ?     Did  ye  hear  it  ? 

Annie  [gulpi7ig].  David,  dear,  if  ye'd  but  listen  to 
what  I  was  a-goin'  to  say.  I  was  a-goin'  to  say  that 
I've  not  heard  the  cuckoo  yet,  but  that  everythin's 
over-early  this  spring  in  Wales,  an'  I'm  expectin'  to 
hear  one  any  time  now.  'Tis  so  warm  there  might 
be  one  singin'  at  dusk  to-day  —  there  might  be  ! 

David  [brightening].     Might  there  be,  Annie  ? 

Annie  [smoothing  his  head  with  her  hand].  Aye, 
lad.     Hush,  lad,  they're  singin'  in  the  chapel ! 

[She  sta?ids  there  with  one  hand  resting  on  his  fore- 
head, listening  to  the  singing  of  Penlan,  a  hymn  by  David 
Jenkins.     When  the  music  stops,  she  moves  azvay.] 

David.     'Tis  over-early,  an',  Annie  — 

Annie.  Davy  dear,  be  still !  Pastor  Morris  says 
—  Tut,  tut,  I'll  close  the  window,  for  there  comes  that 
Lowry  Prichard  and  her  man. 

[Annie  closes  zvindows  hastily  and  goes  hack  to  her 
washing.     Enter  from    right  Lowry    and    her  husband 


6o     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIJ'E   AUTHORS 

GuTO,  coming  from  the  Monday  prayer  meeting  and  carry- 
ing hymnals.  Lowry  dressed  iji  Welsh  costume,  clogs, 
short  full  skirt,  striped  apron,  white  sleeves  from  elbotv 
to  wrist,  tight  bodice,  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  white 
cap,  and  tall,  Welsh  heaver  hat.  GuTO,  Welsh  beaver 
hat  on  like  his  wife's,  striped  vest,  brass  buttons  on  lapels 
of  black  cloth  coat,  long,  somewhat  tight  trousers.  At 
sight  of  washtub  and  Annie  busy  over  it,  Lowry  and 
GuTO  make  gestures  of  shocked  dismay  to  each  other.] 

Lowry.     Good  evenin',  Annie  Dalben. 

Annie  {wiping  her  wet  hand  on  her  apron].  Good 
evenin',  Lowry  Prichard,  an'  to  you,  Guto. 

GuTO.     Good  evenin',  mum. 

Lowry.     How  is  your  man  ? 

Annie.     He's  no  better. 

Lowry.     Is  he  worse  ? 

Annie.     Nay. 

Lowry.     We  missed  ye,  Annie  Dalben. 

Guto.     Aye,  we  did.     Why  were  ye  not  at  meetin'  ? 

Annie.     I've  my  man  to  mind  these  days. 

Lowry  [triumphantly].  But  ye  said  he  was  no 
worse,  ye  did. 

Annie.     Aye,  I  did,  but  I  cannot  leave  him  alone. 

Guto.  But  ye're  neglectin'  chapel  an'  forgettin' 
the  Lord,  Annie  Dalben.  Ye'll  go  quite  on  the  down- 
fall, like  this. 

Lowry.  Aye,  ye've  not  been  to  meetin's  an'  'tis 
bad  when  he's  dyin'  for  ye  to  forget  your  Lord.  Is 
he  in  there  ? 

Annie  [moving  protectingly  nearer  the  closed  window]. 
Yiss: 

Lowry.     Why  were  ye  washin'  ^ 

Annie.     Ye've  no   cause   to   ask   that  —  ye   know. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  6l 

Except  I  did  the  washin',  what  would  there  be  for 
me  to  care  for  David  with  —  now  that  he  needs  me  ? 

GuTO.     Yiss,  but  ye  could  do  it  on  some  other  day. 

Annie.  Nay,  for  the  ladies  are  waitin'  now  for 
what  they've  given  me  to  do  —  an'  they  so  kind. 

LowRY.     I  see  Pastor  Morris  comin'  in. 

Annie,  Aye,  he's  comin'  every  day  an'  some  days 
bringin'  me  the  food  from  his  own  table  for  my  man. 

[Enter  Pastor  Morris,  young,  earnest,  and  rather  se- 
vere because  of  his  youth.] 

LowRY  [the  inquisitional  look  on  her  face  deepening, 
and  her  voice  grozving  more  shrill,  pointing  to  Annie]. 
Ye  see,  sir,  what  Annie  Dalben's  been  doin'  while  we 
were  in  meetin'.  She's  needin'  a  sermon,  aye,  that 
she  is. 

GuTO.     She's  goin'  quite  on  the  downfall,  sir. 

Annie.  Lowry  Prichard,  ye've  no  cause  to  speak 
so  about  me.  When  was  I  ever  absent  when  my 
man  was  well }  But  now,  sir  [turning  to  Morris],  as 
ye  know,  he's  ill  an'  needin'  me  an'  all  the  s'dhn's  I 
can  earn.     I  cannot  go  away  from  him. 

Lowry  [speaking  to  Pastor  Morris].  She's  needin' 
your  advice,  sir.  'Tis  that  she  is  needin'  whatever. 
Warn  her  well. 

GuTO.     Yiss,  an'  rebuke  her. 

Lowry.  Ye' re  young,  sir,  but  ye're  the  instrument 
of  the  Lord  whatever.  'Tis  your  duty  to  bring  her 
back  to  her  conscience. 

GuTO.     Amen. 

[Lowry  and  Guto  go  off  very  self-righteous  and  look- 
ing triumphantly  at  Annie,  who,  quiet,  her  face  pale 
and  weary,  turns  to  her  washing  and  rubs  and  rinses 
diligently  while  the  minister  is  talking.] 


62     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Morris  [gently].  I've  been  troubled,  for  I  knew 
that  it  would  come  to  this,  Annie.  I  should  have 
spoken  with  you  before  about  going  to  chapel.  Some 
one  could  be  found  to  stay  with  David  while  you  were 
at  meeting.  You  have  not  been  to  chapel  for  a  month, 
Annie. 

Annie  [continuing  her  work  hut  in  her  voice  the  atti- 
tude of  the  older  woman  towards  the  young  man].  Ye're 
very  kind,  sir,  to  take  the  interest,  but  I'm  thinkin' 
ye  cannot  understand.  There's  been  no  occasion, 
sir,  for  ye  to  understand  through  what  I've  been  goin' 
these  days.  [She  rubs  her  sleeve  across  her  tear-filled 
eyes  and  continues  washing  sturdily.] 

Morris.  Yes,  but,  Annie,  what  is  David  thinking.^ 
Does  he  want  you  to  stay  away  from  the  meetings 
where  you  have  always  been  together  .f' 

Annie.     Nay,  sir. 

Morris.     Has  he  spoken  of  your  staying  away  ? 

Annie  [reluctantly].  Aye,  sir,  he  asked  this  evenin' 
why  I  was  not  in  meetin'. 

Morris  [reflectively].  He  did.  Well,  I  am  think- 
ing that  — 

Annie  [dropping  her  work  and  speaking  as  if  worried]. 
Nay,  sir,  I've  no  cause  to  excuse  myself  to  ye  —  ye're 
naught  but  a  lad.  'Tis  past  your  knowledge  how  my 
man  is  everythin'  to  me  —  everythin',  he  is.  He's 
been  such  a  husband  as  no  one  but  myself  can  know, 
thinkin'  of  me  all  the  time,  livin'  for  me,  as  gentle  an' 
tender  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  child,  an'  now,  sir,  he's 
ill  —  he  may  be  dyin',  an'  I  can  think  of  nothin'  but 
doin'  everythin'  for  —  [David  taps  on  window  and 
Annie  turns  to  open  it.]  Aye,  lad  dear.  'Tis  the 
Pastor  comin'  to  see  ye  again. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  63 

David  [smiling,  and  holding  out  one  weak  old  hand]. 
Good  evenin',  sir,  such  a  grand  day,  with  spring  every- 
where. We've  been  expectin'  the  cuckoo,  sir  —  the 
wife  and  I.  Have  ye  heard  the  cuckoo,  yet,  Annie  ? 
Morris  [starting  to  speak].  'Twill  be  a  fortnight  be — 
Annie  [interrupting  hurriedly].  Nay,  lad  dear, 
I've  been  busy,  but  I'm  thinkin'  I'm  likely  to  hear  it 

» 

now  any  moment  —  a3'e,  any  moment. 

Morris.     But,  Annie,  the  cuckoo  doesn't  — 

Annie.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  almost  promise  the  cuckoo 
would  be-  singin'  at  sundown  whatever — aye,  in- 
deed, lad  darlin'.     Now  I'll  — 

David  [interrupting].  Annie,  ye  mind  that  baby 
cuckoo  we  saw  the  skylark  a-feedin'  that  first  spring 
in  Blaen  Cwm  .?  It  all  comes  back  so  clear  now  an' 
glearer  every  moment.  I'd  not  once  thought  of  it, 
sir,  since  then. 

Morris.     But,  David,  the  — 

Annie  [speaking  to  David  and  closing  the  zvindozvs]. 
Lie  down,  lad  darlin',  an'  be  quiet.  I'll  call  ye,  if 
the  cuckoo  sings. 

[In  the  distance  the  choir  can  he  heard  practising 
Cariad,  a  revival  hymn,  in  the  chapel.  Continues  until 
Annie  is  alone  and  talking  to  herself.] 

Morris  [severely].  But,  Annie,  you  know  the 
cuckoo  will  not  sing  at  least  for  another  fortnight. 
It  is  mid-April  before  the  cuckoo  sings. 

Annie  [wearily].     Aye,  sir. 

Morris.     Why  did  you  say  that  to  David  ? 

Annie.  He's  achin',  sir,  to  hear  the  cuckoo  sing, 
an'  I'm  wantin'  to  comfort  him. 

Morris.  But,  Annie,  it  is  a  lie  to  say  what  you  did 
to  him. 


64     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Annie  [vigorously].  Aye,  sir,  but  I'm  not  carin' 
whatever. 

Morris  [severely].     Not  caring  about  telling  a  lie  ? 

Annie.  Nay,  sir,  I'm  not  carin'  about  anythin' 
but  makin'  him  happy. 

Morris  [rebukingly].  Annie !  [Annie  continues 
zvashing  and  does  not  reply.]  Annie !  Well,  indeed, 
Annie,  if  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  and  you 
will  not  listen  to  me,  I  must  be  going  to  choir  practice. 
I  promised  to  be  there  this  evening. 

Annie  [zvithout  turning  from  the  tub].  Aye,  sir. 
[Pastor  Morris  off  through  garden  path  to  choir  practice. 
Goes  to  left.  Annie  continues  zvashing  until  he  is  well 
out  of  sight.  She  stands  up  straight  and  looks  about 
the  garden.]  He's  wantin'  to  hear  the  cuckoo  more 
nor  anythin'  else,  dear,  dear !  Everywhere  'tis  green 
now,  an'  the  lilies  will  be  here  before  long  —  but  lad, 
lad,  the  cuckoo,  will  it  come .''  [She  goes  to  left  into 
garden,  the  zvet  clothes  in  a  basket  under  her  arm,  and 
stands  there  looking  about.]  'Twas  over  there  it  laid 
its  egg  in  the  robin's  nest  this  year  ago  in  May  — 
aye,  an'  one  poor  little  bird  pushed  the  other  out,  an' 
ye  picked  it  up,  lad  dear,  an'  were  so  tender  with  it. 
An'  they're  not  wantin'  ye,  Davy,  my  old  lad  darlin', 
to  think  the  cuckoo  will  be  singin'  soon.  Dear  God, 
is  there  to  be  no  cuckoo  singin'  for  the  lad  again .'' 
Just  once  more,  dear  God,  to  sing  to  him  and  comfort 
him.?  Aye!  just  the  one  song?  No  cuckoo?  Aye, 
there  will  be  a  cuckoo  singin',  there  shall  be  a  cuckoo 
singin'  !  [She  looks  tozvards  the  closed  zvindozvs  be- 
hind zvhich  David  lies,  and  puts  dozvn  her  basket  of 
clothes.]  He's  asleep!  Hush,  I'll  be  the  cuckoo! 
He'll  wake  an'  think  the  spring  has  really  come.     Here 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  65 

by  this  tree.  They're  in  the  chapel,  an'  they'll  never 
know.  [Throughout  this  scene,  until  LoWRY  speaks, 
a  cuckoo  song  is  being  played  very  softly.  And  it  is 
into  a  fezv  notes  of  this,  several  times  repeated,  that  Annie 
szvings  when  she  actually  sings  her  cuckoo  song.  She 
opens  her  mouth  to  begin,  a  look  of  appealing  misery 
on  her  face.]  'Twas  somethin' like  this  :  Coo-o.  Coo-o! 
Tut,  that  sounds  like  a  hen.  I  know,  it  goes  over 
an'  over  again,  sing-song,  sing-song,  like  this  :  cu-cu, 
cii-cu.  Aye,  that's  better.  [She  rocks  herself  back- 
wards and  forwards,  practising  it  and  repeating  cu-cu, 
cu-cu.]  'Tis  growin'  better,  but  lad,  lad,  I'm  plannin' 
to  deceive  ye  whatever.  [Brushes  tears  away  impa- 
tiently and  begins  song  again.]  Cucu-cu,  cucu-cu, 
cucucu-cu,  cu!  Aye,  that's  fair;  aye,  'tis  fine!  He'll 
not  know  me  from  a  real  cuckoo.  I'll  try  loud  now, 
for  ye've  no  long,  dearie. 

[She  holds  eagerly  on  to  tree  beside  her,  so  lost  in  cuckoo 
music  that  she  is  not  aware  of  a  head  popping  up  behind 
the  garden  wall  and  down  again.  She  drazvs  a  lotig 
breath  and  begins,  softly,  slozvly,  the  song  sounding  as 
if  it  came  from  a  distance.  She  zvaits  a  moment,  — 
the  heads  are  well  above  the  wall  nozv  in  amazement,  — 
and  then  sings  more  loudly,  making  the  song  sound  as 
if  it  came  from  the  garden  where  she  is  standing.] 

David  [calling].     Annie ! 

Annie  [hurrying  to  open  his  windows].  Aye,  lad 
dear,  I'm  comin'. 

David  [ecstatically].  Annie,  Annie,  dear,  I  heard 
the  cuckoo  singin' ;  I  was  dreamin'  again,  an'  all  at 
once  I  heard  the  cuckoo  singin'  in  the  garden,  loud 
and  clear.  It  sang  three  times ;  first,  it  sounded 
like  somethin'  else,  'twas  so  breathless;    then  it  sang 


66     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

quiet  an'  sweet,  like  a  cuckoo;  an'  the  third  time  it 
seemed  comin'  from  the  old  mill  wheel. 

Annie.  But,  lad  darlin',  ye've  heard  it,  an'  I'm 
that  glad!  Three  times;  yiss,  yiss,  'tis  a  real  fine 
cuckoo.  Now  ye' re  happy,  darlin',  an'  ye'll  sleep 
well  upon  it. 

David  [disappointedly].     Did  ye  no  hear  it  ? 

Annie.     I'm  thinkin'  I  did  an'  thinkin'  I  didn't. 

David,     Where  were  ye  ^. 

Annie.     Out  in  the  garden,  hangin'  out  the  clothes. 

David  [/////  more  disappoiyitedly].  An'  ye  didn't 
hear  it  ? 

Annie.  I'm  no  certain,  darlin';  I  heard  some- 
thin'  —  I  did,  indeed. 

David  [proudly].  'Twas  the  cuckoo,  Annie  dear ;  I'm 
hearin'  it  first  every  year;   ye  must  be  growin'  deaf. 

Annie.  Yiss,  yiss.  Now  go  to  sleep,  an'  I'll  call 
ye  if  I  hear  the  cuckoo  sing. 

David.     Will  it  sing  again  ? 

Annie.  Aye,  darlin',  if  ye  heard  it  once,  'tis  sure 
to  sing  again. 

David.     I'll  be  gettin'  well,  Annie,  is  it  not  so  .? 

Annie  [turning  away  suddenly].  Indeed,  lad  dear, 
ye'll  be  about  among  the  heather  'fore  long. 

David  [speaking  quietly,  almost  to  himself].  To 
think  the  cuckoo's  singin'  —  singin'  for  me  ! 

Annie.     Aye,  aye;   now  go  to  sleep. 

[He  lies  hack  and  closes  his  eyes  obediently.  Annie, 
drying  her  eyes  on  her  apron,  goes  to  left  towards  her 
basket  of  clothes.  She  stands  by  the  tree  where  she  had 
sung  the  cuckoo  song  for  David,  unconscious  that  two 
people  are  head  and  shoulders  above  the  garden  wall, 
looking  at  her.] 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  67 

LowRY  [in  a  loud  voice].  So  ye've  come  back,  Annie 
Dalben,  to  sing  the  cuckoo  again. 

GuYO.     Aye,  we  heard  ye  singin'  the  cuckoo. 

LowRY.  Pooh,  'tis  a  pretty  cuckoo  ye  make,  an 
old  woman  Hke  you,  an'  a  pretty  song ! 

Annie.     Lowry  Prichard,  have  a  care! 

GuTO.     'Tis  over-early  for  the  cuckoo,  is  it  not  ? 

Annie.     Yiss. 

GuTO.  An'  what  are  ye  singin'  in  your  garden  for, 
an'  David  dyin'  ? 

[Annie  does  not  reply  hut  stoops  to  her  basket  of 
clothes  and  begins  to  hang  them  out.\ 

Lowry.  So  ye'll  give  no  answer }  Well,  indeed, 
maybe  ye'll  answer  Pastor  Morris.  Aye,  Guto,  go 
fetch  the  Pastor. 

[Guto  goes  off  .to  left,  through  garden  gate  in  garden 
wall.] 

Lowry  [going  tozvard  the  zvindozvs  behind  zvhich 
David  lies].  'Tis  a  godly  song  ye've  sung,  Annie, 
an'  a  tale  for  the  chapel,  eh  ? 

Annie  [following  and  stepping  in  front  of  Lowry]. 
Ye  may  go  out  of  this  garden,  an'  that  this  minute  ! 

Lowry  [making  her  way  nearer  and  nearer  the  zvindow]. 
Nay,  nay,  I'm  a-goin'  to  speak  with  David  an'  tell 
him  he's  a  cuckoo  for  a  wife.  Tut,  ye  look  fair  crazy, 
Annie,  crazy  with  wrath  !  Your  hair  is  all  rumpled, 
an'  your  smock  is  dirty.  David,  bein'  a  cuckoo  is  — 
[But  the  taunt  is  left  unfinished,  for  at  that  moment  young 
Morris  co77ies  in  hastily,  Guto  following.] 

Morris  [authoritatively].  Annie !  Lowry !  Annie, 
is  this  I  hear  true  ?  Have  you  been  imitating  the 
cuckoo  ? 

Annie.     Aye,  sir. 


68     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Morris  [turning  to  Lowry  and  Guto].  You  may- 
go.     Leave  this  to  me. 

[Guto  and  Lowry  go  off  right,  through  front  gate, 
staring  in  at  David  as  they  pass.] 

Morris  [sternly].  So,  Annie,  you  have  been  act- 
ing the  cuckoo  —  acting  a  he.  With  this  He  upon 
you,  how  will  it  be  with  salvation  ? 

Annie  [hotly].  Salvation,  sir  ?  I've  no  mind  to  your 
salvation ;  no,  nor  to  heaven's,  if  the  Lord  makes  this 
singin'  a  lie  !  I'm  thinkin'  of  David  as  I've  thought  of 
him  these  fifty  years,  years  before  ye  were  born,  sir,  an' 
if  a  lie  will  make  him  happy  when  he's  dyin',  then  I'm 
willin'  to  lie,  an'  do  it  every  minute  of  the  day. 

Morris.     That  means  you  are  willing  to  sin  ? 

Annie.     Aye,  sir,  to  sin.     I'm  a  willin'  sinner! 

Morris  [more  gently].     You  are  overwrought,  Annie. 

Annie  [wearily].     Ye're  all  against  me,  sir. 

Morris.  Nay,  nay,  but  wouldn't  it  be  better  if  I 
were  to  tell  David  about  the  cuckoo  ? 

Annie  [sobbing].     Oh,  no,  no,  no,  sir!     Not  that! 

Morris  [stretching  out  his  hand  to  comfort  her].  Annie, 
there,  there,  you  mustn't  cry  so. 

Annie.  'Tis  all  the  happiness  he's  got,  an'  he's 
goin'.     Oh,  my  lad,  my  lad  ! 

Morris.     There,  there,  Annie  ! 

Annie.  We've  been  married  fifty  years  this  spring, 
an'  every  spring  we've  listened  for  the  cuckoo  an' 
not  one  missed.  An'  now  he's  a-dyin'  an'  a-wantin' 
to  hear  it  so,  an'  'twas  over-early,  an'  then  I  thought 
of  bein'  the  cuckoo  myself.     Oh,  Davy,  Davy  darlin' ! 

Morris  [altogether  forgetting  his  pastoral  severity]. 
There,  Annie,  there,  dear,  tell  me  about  it !  We'll 
see,  Annie. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  69 

Annie.  There's  no  mofe.  Only  he  kept  askin' 
about  the  spring,  the  violets  an'  marsh  marigolds,  an' 
I  knew  all  the  time  he  was  thinkin'  of  the  cuckoo  an' 
not  askin'  because  he  was  goin'  an'  mightn't  hear  it. 
An'  then  he  did.  An'  I  said  I  thought  he'd  hear  one 
this  evenin',  that  everythin'  was  over-early  what- 
ever. After  that  he  seemed  happier  than  I'd  seen 
him,  an'  I  closed  his  windows  an'  went  off  into  the 
garden  to  practise  it.  I  worked  at  it  till  I  could  do  it 
fair.     Oh,  Davy,  Davy  lad  ! 

Morris.  Now,  Annie  dear,  don't  cry,  just  tell  me 
more. 

Annie.  Then,  sir,  I  sang  the  song  here  by  this 
tree,  an'  when  he  called  me  to  him,  there  was  such  a 
look  of  joy  on  his  face  as  has  not  been  there  this  long 
time.     'Tis  the  last  happiness  I  can  give  him,  sir. 

David  [calling].     Annie,  Annie  ! 

Annie.     He's  callin'.     Aye,  lad  dear,  I'm  comin*. 

{She  goes  into  cottage  and,  after  opening  all  the  win- 
dows, stands  by  the  foot  of  David's  bed.] 

David.     Have  ye  heard  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 

Annie.     No,  not  yet.     It  must  be  singin'  again  soon. 

David  [anxiously].     Ye're  sure  'tis  goin'  to  sing  ? 

Annie  [gathering  him  up  and  turning  his  pillow]. 
Indeed,  yiss,  an'  with  the  windows  all  open,  ye'll  be 
hearin'  it  fine  an'  clear,  ye  will.  I'll  go  back  up  into 
the  garden  to  see  is  the  cuckoo  there. 

David.  Will  it  be  singin'  over  an'  over  again,  the 
way  it  did  that  first  time  .? 

Annie.  Aye,  I'm  thinkin'  so,  lad  darlin'.  Ye 
must  listen  quietly. 

David.  'Twas  so  beautiful  singin'.  I'd  hke  hearin' 
it  with  ye  here  beside  me. 


70     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Annie  [kissing  him].     I'll  come  back,  lad. 

David.     Aye,  I'll  be  waitin'  for  ye. 

[Annie  goes  out  of  the  cottage  door  and  hack  into  gar- 
den where  Pastor  Morris  is  standing,  his  hat  off,  while 
Annie  and  David  are  talking  together.  He  can  see 
them  both,  but  David  cannot  see  him.  Annie  and 
Morris  converse  in  whispers.  The  cuckoo  song  begins 
to  be  played  softly.] 

Morris.     Is  he  worse  ? 

Annie  [looking  at  Morris  beseechingly].  I  cannot 
tell,  sir,  but  he's  longin'  to  hear  the  cuckoo  sing 
again. 

Morris.     I  see,  and  you  are  wishing  to  do  it  again  ? 

Annie.  Yiss,  an'  with  the  lad  dyin',  can  ye  tell 
me  not  to  do  what  Davy  is  askin'  for  ?  Each  time 
might  be  his  last,  sir. 

Morris  [after  a  moment's  hesitation].  Nay,  go 
sing  for  him.  I  will  stand  guard  for  you,  and  no 
one  shall  disturb  you. 

Annie  [a  deep  sigh  of  relief].  Oh,  sir,  thank  you  ! 
'Tis  sure  to  be  a  comfort.  But  ye're  harmin'  your 
conscience  for  me,  sir,  are  ye  .'' 

Morris  [humbly].  I'm  not  saying,  Annie;  I'm 
over-young  to  have  a  conscience  in  some  things. 

Annie  [taking  his  hand  to  kiss  it].  May  God  bless 
ye,  sir,  for  bein'  kind  to  an  old  woman  ! 

[The  sun  has  set  behind  the  chapel,  and  it  is  rapidly 
growing  dark  as  the  music  grows  louder.  Morris 
steps  back  to  the  garden  gate  to  keep  watch.  Annie 
stands  by  the  tree  and,  dropping  her  hands  by  her  side, 
lifting  her  head,  and  swaying  her  old  body  to  and  fro, 
sings  the  cuckoo  song  over  and  over  again  three  times. 
David   has  risen   in  bed,  an   expression   of  rapturous 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  yt 

delight  upon  his  face  as  he  leans  against  the  casement, 
listening.  The  lights  are  being  lighted  in  the  chapel, 
and  the  chapel  bell  begins  to  ring.] 

David  [calling  faintly].  Annie,  Annie  darlin',  come 
quickly,  the  cuckoo's  singin' ! 

Annie  [hastening  towards  him].  Yiss,  lad,  I'm 
comin'. 

David  [stretching  out  his  hands  towards  her].  Annie, 
sweetheart,  did  ye  hear  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 

Annie.     Yiss,  dearie,  loud  and  clear. 

David  [tryijig  to  imitate  its  song  while  his  voice  grows 
fainter].     It  sang  over  an'  over  like  this  — 

Annie  [zvithin  the  cottage  and  beside  David].  Yiss, 
dear,  I  see. 

David  [sinking  back  into  her  arms].  An'  —  it  — 
was  —  quiet  —  but  —  Annie  — ■ 

Annie  [holding  him  to  her  and  crying  out].  Lad, 
lad  dear,  Davy,  can  ye  not  speak  to  me  .'' 

[The  bell  for  chapel  stops  ringing.  The  organ,  play- 
ing "Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul,"  is  heard.  Morris  is 
standing  by  the  gate,  facing  towards  the  old  people,  his 
hat  off,  his  head  bowed.] 

CURTAIN 


THE   LOCKED  CHEST  ^ 

A  Play  in  One  Act 
(From  a  Tale  in  the  Laxdaelasaga.) 

JOHN   MASEFIELD 


^  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  by  special  arrange- 
ment with  The  Macmillan  Company,  Publishers. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 
the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


The  Laxdaelasaga,  from  which  the  incident  told 
in  this  play  is  taken,  describes  events  from  the  years 
886  to  1030.  It  is  one  of  the  longest  sagas  and  is  re- 
markable  for  its   skillfid   delineation  of  character. 

In  this  play  we  have  an  instance  illustrating  the 
statement  of  William  Lyon  Phelps  that  "putting  new 
wine  into  old  bottles  has  been  the  steady  occupation 
of  John  Masefield."  Mr.  Phelps  likens  Mr.  Mase- 
field's  sincerity  and  catholicity  to  Chaucer.  Certainly 
the  author  has  the  art  of  the  perfect  dramatist;  his 
characters  are  never  described,  they  do  the  talking; 
and  there  is  no  hesitation  on  the  author's  part  in  regard 
to  the  language  employed  when  there  is  a  need  for 
effect. 


THE    LOCKED    CHEST 

Persons 

Thord   Goddi,   a  Farmer 

Thorolf 

Ingiald,  a  Lord 

Soldiers,  Adherents  of  Ingiald 

ViGDis  Goddi,  Wife  of  Thord 

Scene  :  Iceland 

[Scene:  A  room.     A  chest  used  as  ahench,  a  table,  etc.] 
[ViGDis  embroidering  a  cloth.] 

ViGDis  [singing].     My  love  is  drowned  in  the  Low- 
lands, 
Away.     Heigho. 
My  love  is  drowned  in  the  Low- 
lands, 
Lowlands  no  more. 
[Enter  Thord  Goddi.] 

Well,  Thord.     I   hope  you  had  a  good  market. 
[Sings.]  His  hair  is  cold  with  the  seaweed, 

Away.     Heigho. 
His  hair  is  cold  with  the  seaweed, 
Lowlands  no  more. 
Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire,  won't  you  ? 
[Sings.]  O  my  love  is  drowned  in  the  Low- 

lands, 
Away  — 
Thord.     For  Heaven's  sake,  stop  it. 

75 


76    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.     Stop  what  ? 

Thorx).     That  caterwauHng. 

ViGDis.     CaterwauHng  ? 

Thord.  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  howHng  when 
I've  got  a  headache  — 

ViGDis.  I'm  sorry  I  sang  when  you  had  a  headache. 
I  didn't  know. 

Thord.     I've  always  got  a  headache. 

ViGDis.     I'm  sorry,  Thord. 

Thord.  O,  don't  "sorry"  me.  If  you're  so  sorry 
as  all  that  there'd  have  been  a  nice  supper  ready.  But 
there.     It's   always  the  way. 

ViGDis.     Let  me  get  you  your  supper. 

Thord.  O,  I  don't  want  it  now,  thanks,  I  couldn't 
eat  it.  Why  wasn't  it  ready  for  me,  the  moment  I 
came  in  ? 

ViGDis.     But,  Thord.     My  dear  man. 

Thord.  How  many  more  times  am  I  to  tell  you  I 
won't  be  "my  deared"  when  I've  a  headache? 

ViGDis.     I'm  sorry,  Thord. 

Thord.  If  you  knew  how  much  it  aggravated. 
But  there.     You  only  do  it  to  drive  me  mad. 

ViGDis.     I  don't,  Thord. 

Thord.  Contradict  me.  Do.  That's  right.  Con- 
tradict me.  I  suppose  you'll  say  next  —  But  there, 
it's  always  the  way. 

Vigdis.     Thord ! 

Thord.  Now,  why  wasn't  supper  ready  the  moment 
I  came  in  ? 

Vigdis.  You  said  you'd  be  home  late,  Thord,  and 
that  supper  wasn't  to  be  till  half-past  seven. 

Thord.  You  might  have  known  the  fair  would  be 
a  bad  one. 


THE  LOCKED   CHEST  77 

ViGDis.     Was  the  fair  a  bad  one  ? 

Thord.     O,  use  your  sense.     Use  your  sense,  woman. 

ViGDis.     But  I  do,  Thord. 

Thord.  Would  I  be  here  at  this  time  If  the  fair  had 
been  a  good  one  .?     You  know  perfectly  well  I  shouldn't. 

ViGDis.     I'm  so  sorry,  Thord. 

Thord  [growling].  Yes,  so  that  you  might  have 
more  money  to  spend  on  jewelry.  [He  sits  down.] 
I'm  tired. 

ViGDis.  Let  me  help  you  pull  your  boots  off.  [She 
■pulls  a  hoot  and  drops  it.] 

Thord.  O,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
I'd  got  a  headache  ?  But  there.  No,  I'll  take  off  the 
other  myself.     I'm  tired  to  death. 

ViGDis.     Let  me  give  you  a  nip  of  brandy. 

Thord.  Brandy  ?  With  a  headache  ?  You  know 
brandy  nearly  kills  me.  Now  do  for  Heaven's  sake 
leave   me   alone. 

ViGDis.  You're  tired,  Thord.  You're  tired.  Lie 
down  on  the  chest,  and  rest  till  supper.  You're  tired 
to  death. 

Thord.  I  wouldn't  be  tired  if  I  wasn't  driven  half 
mad  by  your  tongue.     A  plague  take  all  wives  and  fairs. 

ViGDis.  Tell  me  about  the  fair,  Thord,  if  you're 
not  too  tired. 

Thord.     I've  already  told  you  about  the  fair. 

ViGDis.     Were  there  many  people  ? 

Thord.  Enough  to  fill  a  graveyard.  I'd  be  glad 
to  have  the  burying  of  some  of  them. 

Vigdis.     What's  the  news  ? 

Thord.     News  ?     What  d'ye  want  with  news  .'' 

Vigdis.  But  I  like  to  hear  what's  going  on.  What 
were  they  talking  of? 


78     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Thord.     What  were  who  talking  of? 

ViGDis.     The  people  at  the  fair, 

Thord.  None  of  their  business.  That's  what  they 
were  talking  of.     They  were  talking  of  a   murder. 

ViGDis.     A  murder! 

Thord  [shouting].  A  murder.  Can't  you  pay  at- 
tention when  I'm  talking  to  you.?  I  said  a  murder. 
Why  don't  you  listen  .? 

ViGDis.     Who  has  been  murdered  ? 

Thord.     I   didn't  say  any  one  had  been  murdered. 

ViGDis.     But  you  said  — 

Thord.  But  I  said  nothing  of  th^  sort.  There  was 
a  fight  down  on  the  beach  and  a  man  was  killed. 

ViGDis.     What  man  .? 

Thord.     That  big  swaggering  fellow  Hall. 

ViGDis.     Hall  ?     Brother  of  Ingiald  ? 

Thord.  Yes.  Brother  of  Ingiald.  A  lout  he  was, 
too. 

Vigdis.     Who  killed  him  ? 

Thord.     Does  it  matter  to  you  who  killed  him  ? 

Vigdis.     No.     Only  I  would  like  to  know. 

Thord.  You're  always  wanting  to  know.  You 
want  to  know  too  much.     What  was  Hall  to  you.? 

Vigdis.     Nothing.     My    cousin    was    his    partner 
That's  all  I  know  about  him.     And  they  used  to  quarrel 
all  day,  as  though  they  were  man  and  wife. 

Thord.  I  suppose  that's  meant  for  me.  Well,  I 
don't  know  who  killed  him.     But  I  know  this. 

Vigdis.     What  ? 

Thord.     I  pity  the  man  who  did  it. 

Vigdis.     Why  ? 

Thord.     Have  you   any  sense  at   all,  woman  .? 

Vigdis.     I  don't  see  why  he  should  be  pitied. 


THE  LOCKED  CHEST  79 

Thord.  Well,  I  do.  D'you  suppose  a  great  man  like 
Ingiald  will  let  his  brother's  murderer  escape  ? 

ViGDis.     But  you  said  it  was  a  fight  on  the  beach. 

Thord.  I  said.  I  said.  I  said.  Nag.  Nag.  Nag. 
Even  if  it  were,  d'you  suppose  a  man  like  Ingiald  would 
let  the  man  escape  ?  Ingiald'U  hunt  him  down.  That 
murderer's  a  doomed  man. 

ViGDis.     Poor  fellow,  I  say. 

Thord.     Serve  him  right,  I  say.     Serve  him  right. 

ViGDis.     I  \vonder  who  it  was. 

Thord.  It  isn't  known  who  it  was.  Two  or  three 
are  suspected. 

ViGDis.     I  hope  it  wasn't  cousin  Thorolf. 

Thord.  Well,  if  it  was  he  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. 

ViGDis.  That  man  Hall  was  a  sad  man  to  work  with. 
I  hate  to  speak  ill  of  a  dead  man;  but  he  had  a  bad 
name. 

Thord.     He  w^as  a  drunken  boor. 

ViGDis.     He  went  for  Thorolf  with  an  axe  once. 

Thord.  Well,  I  pity  the  man  who  went  for  him 
wuth  an  axe.  Is  supper  ever  going  to  come  at  all  ^  Or 
am  I  to  stay  talking  here  all  night? 

ViGDis.  Won't  you  go  in  and  he  down,  Thord .? 
Supper  will   be   ready   in   a  moment. 

Thord.  How^  can  I  go  in  and  lie  down  ?  You  know 
perfectly  well  I've  got  to  see  to  the  chores.  I  can't 
trust  the  hired   men. 

ViGDis.     I'll  run  out  and  see  to  the  chores,  Thord. 

Thord.  You  }  I  can't  trust  you  to  get  supper,  let 
alone  do  the  chores.  No.  I  must  sacrifice  myself. 
I've  got  a  headache  and  I'm  half  dead.  But  there, 
it's  always  the  way.  I  must  do  a  thing  myself  if  I 
want  it  done.     Give  me  my  boots. 


8o     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.  Let  me  go,  Thord,  I'll  see  the  cows  driven 
in   and   milked. 

Thord.  Give  —  me  —  my  —  boots.  Don't  I  tell 
you  ?  Don't  tell  me  what  you'll  do  and  what  you'll  not 
do.  There  [puts  on  boots],  I  thought  when  I  came  in 
I'd  have  time  to  rest  myself.  But  there.  It's  always 
the  way.  [Turns  to  go  out.]  What  are  you  glowering 
there  for  ?  Go  —  and  —  get  —  the  supper  ready. 
When  you've  worn  me  to  my  grave  I  suppose  you'll  be 
glad.     You  do  make  me  so  mad. 

ViGDis.     I'll    have   supper   directly,   Thord. 

Thord.  You  do  make  me  so  mad.  But  there. 
It's  always  the  way.     [He  goes  out.] 

ViGDis.  It's  a  pity  we've  no  child,  Thord  and  I. 
They  say  a  child  is  a  great  sweetener  in  a  house.  If  we'd 
a  child,  perhaps  he  wouldn't  take  on  so.  Ah  well.  It 
wasn't  like  this  when  we  were  courting.  I  must  get 
this  table  clear.  If  I'd  had  a  child  now,  he'd  have  been 
different.  That's  what  a  wife  must  expect.  Nothing 
but  "O  my  headache,"  and  "O  if  I'm  not  tired."  I 
only  wanted  to  hear  about  the  murder.  It's  not  so 
often  we  get  a  murder  to  talk  about.  The  way  he  talks 
you'd  think  we  had  one  every  day.  So  Hall  is  mur- 
dered. I  never  liked  that  man.  I  wonder  who  killed 
him.  Well.  There's  one  comfort.  My  cousin  Thorolf 
wouldn't  go  for  to  kill  a  man.  Not  even  Hall,  he 
wouldn't.  He  wouldn't  kill  a  fly,  my  cousin  Thorolf 
wouldn't.  He's  like  a  blessed  babe.  [The  door  at  the 
back  is  knocked  violently.]     Bless  us  and  save  us. 

Voice.     Let  me  in.     Let  me  in.     Vigdis.     Thord. 

ViGDis.     Who's  there  .? 

Voice.     Open.     Open.     For  God's  sake  let  me  in. 

ViGDis.     Enter.     If  you  be  of  God. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  8 I 

Voice.     Open. 

ViGDis  [runnifig  to  door].  Come  in.  Who's  there  .'* 
[Enter  Thorolf.]  Thorolf.  Cousin  Thorolf..  How 
are  you  ? 

Thorolf.     Stand  back.     Don't   kiss   me. 

ViGDis.     What's   the   matter,   Thorolf.? 

Thorolf.     Stand  back.     You  keep  your  hands  off. 

ViGDis.     But  I'm  your  cousin,  Thorolf. 

Thorolf.  Yes.  But  perhaps  you  won't  be  quite 
so  glad  to  be  my  cousin  when  you  hear  the  news. 

ViGDis.     What  news,  Thorolf.? 

Thorolf.     About  Hall. 

ViGDis.     He's  dead.     What  d'ye  mean,  Thorolf? 

Thorolf.     I  killed  him,  Vigdis. 

ViGDis.     You,  Thorolf.? 

Thorolf.  He  cheated  me.  0,  but  I  can't  go  into 
that.  So  we  fought,  and  I  killed  him.  It  was  a  fair 
fight.     I    didn't   want   to   kill   him.     God    knows. 

Vigdis.  Men  have  no  sense  when  they  have  swords 
in   their  hands. 

Thorolf.     It  was  a  fair  fight. 

Vigdis.  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Thorolf.  It  seems 
men  must  kill  each  other  from  time  to  time.  But  what 
are  you   going  to   do   now .? 

Thorolf.     What  indeed? 

Vigdis.  You  know  what  it  means.  You  must 
know  what  it  means.     Do  they  know  you  did  it  ? 

Thorolf.     Ingiald  will   know  by  this. 

Vigdis.  But  you  know  what  Ingiald  is.  He'll  be 
after  you  to-night,  now.  Now.  What  will  you  do  ? 
What   will   you   do,  Thorolf? 

Thorolf.     You're  my  cousin,  Vigdis  ? 
Vigdis.     Of  course  I'm  your  cousin. 

G 


82     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Thorolf.  You  wouldn't  cast  me  off.  You  don't 
think  worse  of  me.  I  mean  it  was  a  fair  fight.  It 
was  fair  and  square. 

ViGDis.  Of  course  I  won't  cast  you  off.  You're 
my  cousin.  Men  have  no  sense  at  any  time.  But 
when  they  have  swords  in  their  hands  —  it  might 
happen  to  any  one. 

Thorolf.     Vigdis.     Will  you  stand  by  me  ? 

ViGDis.  You're  my  cousin,  Thorolf.  There's  my 
hand.  But  don't  waste  time  like  this.  Where  will  you 
hide .?  Who  can  shelter  you  against  Ingiald }  The 
King  himself  could  hardly  do  it.  It's  death  to  shelter 
you.  Where  will  you  go  ?  Think.  Think.  Where 
will   you   go  ^ 

Thorolf.  I  was  thinking  perhaps  you  would  shelter 
me. 

Vigdis.     I,  Thorolf? 

Thorolf.     You  and  Thord. 

Vigdis.     And  Thord  ? 

Thorolf.     I  was  thinking  perhaps  you  would. 

Vigdis.     Against  Ingiald  .? 

Thorolf.  Until  I  could  get  a  ship.  Only  till  I 
could  get  a  ship. 

Vigdis.     Against  a  man  like  Ingiald  ? 

Thorolf.     I  know  it's  a  risk,  dear,  I  know  it's  a  risk, 

Vigdis.  You  know,  Thorolf,  my  man  Thord  isn't 
much   of  a   warrior. 

Thorolf.  It  wouldn't  be  for  long,  dear.  If  I  could 
lie  low  a  night  or  two  — 

Vigdis.     What  should  we  be,  against  Ingiald  ? 

Thorolf.  If  we  could  just  put  him  off  the  track, 
dear,  then  I  could  slip  down  to  Broadfirth  and  get  a 
ship.     It  would  only  be  a  night  or  two. 


THE  LOCKED  CHEST  83 

ViGDis.  Thord  is  Thord.  And  I'm  only  a  woman, 
and  women  aren't  much  good  in  a  case  of  this  sort. 

Thorolf.     Let  me  stay,  Vigdis.     Will*  you  ? 

ViGDis.     I  wish  I  could  think  of  a  plan. 

Thorolf.     Where  else  can  I  go  ? 

Vigdis.  Go  ?  You  won't  go  anywhere.  You'll 
just  stay  here,  where  you  are.  Don't  worry  yourself 
about  that.     It's  Ingiald  and  Thord  I'm  thinking  of. 

Thorolf.  My  God,  Vigdis,  you're  good.  I'll 
kiss  you  for  that. 

Vigdis.  Oh,  none  of  your  nonsense,  now.  This 
is  no  kissing  matter.  No,  you  can't  stay  in  here.  Let 
go  my  hand,  or  I'll  box  your  ears.  Come  this  way, 
now.  I'll  shut  you  up  in  the  sheep-fold.  Quickly, 
now,  before  my  husband  comes.     [Goes  out  at  side  door.] 

Thorolf.  I've  only  got  to  put  Ingiald  off  the  track, 
dear.     Old  Hrut  will  get  me  a  ship. 

Vigdis.  Put  Ingiald  oflF  the  track  first,  my  friend. 
We'll  think  of  the  ship  later.  Come  along.  [Exeunt.] 
[The  other  side  door  opens,  and  reenter  Thord.] 

Thord.  Vigdis.  Vigdis.  Is  supper  ready  yet  ? 
Now  if  that  isn't  too  bad.  What's  the  woman  think- 
ing of.?  Vigdis,  I  say.  It's  not  enough  that  I  have  a 
headache,  and  get  fairly  fratted  to  death,  but  I'm  to  be 
kept  waiting  for  my  supper.  Vigdis.  Vigdis,  I  say. 
[Enter  Vigdis.] 

Vigdis.     What  is  it,  Thord  .? 

Thord.  What  is  it?  Supper.  Where's  supper? 
Why  on   earth   isn't   supper  ready  ? 

Vigdis.     I've   had    a    visitor,   Thord.     A    guest. 

Thord.     A  guest,   eh.     Who   invited   him  ? 

Vigdis.  No  one  invited  him.  He's  a  sort  of  a 
relation   of  mine. 


84     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Thord.  So  it  is  a  he.  How  long  am  I  to  be  tor- 
tured with   him  ? 

ViGDis.  I'd  Hke  him  to  stay  for  some  time.  If  you 
don't  mind,  Thord. 

Thord.  You  know  I  mind.  You  know  as  well  as 
I  do  I  can't  abide  strangers  in  the  house.  They  make 
this  house  just  like  an  inn.  Except  that  they  never 
pay  for  what  they  have.  I  will  not  put  up  with  it. 
It's  enough  that  I'm  half  mad  with  headache,  but  I 
must  have  a  stranger  in  the  house.  But  there.  It's 
always  the  way.  Who  is  this  stranger  ?  Is  he  re- 
spectable ^ 

ViGDis.  He's  a  sort  of  relation  of  mine.  I  told  you 
just  now. 

Thord.  A  relation.  If  it  had  been  a  stranger  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  ;  but  to  have  a  relation.  And 
I  shall  have  to  be  civil  to  him.  Vigdis,  I  do  think 
you  might  have  had  a  little  thought  of  me.  But  there. 
You  think  of  no  one  but  yourself.  It's  always  the 
way  with  you  women. 

Vigdis.     It  won't  be  for  long,  Thord. 

Thord.  I  tell  you  what  is  it,  Vigdis.  If  he's  re- 
spectable he  may  stay  the  night  and  go  on  before  break- 
fast. If  he's  one  of  these  rowdy  fellows,  or  if  he's  in 
trouble,  I'll  not  have  him  near  the  place.  I'll  put  the 
dogs  on  hun  myself. 

Vigdis.  You  cannot,  Thord.  I've  already  taken 
him  in.  I  can't  go  back  on  my  word.  I've  promised 
him  shelter  now. 

Thord.     Shelter  ? 

Vigdis.     You  see  he's  in  trouble. 

Thord.     What  trouble  .?     Who  is  he,  once  for  all .? 

Vigdis.     Cousin  Thorolf. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  85 

Thord.  Thorolf!  What's  he  been  doing?  He's 
an  idle  blackguard,  Thorolf. 

ViGDis.     He's  not. 

Thord.  He  is,  I  say.  Don't  contradict.  What's 
he  been  doing  ? 

ViGDis.  There  was  ...  It  was  ...  It  was  a 
fair  fight,  Thord. 

Thord.     A — fair  — fight.     You  —  don't  —  mean  — 

ViGDis.     Down  on  the  beach. 

Thord.     Not  .  .  .     No  .  .  .     Not  Hall .? 

ViGDis.     Yes.     He  killed  Haii. 

Thord.     Ingiald's  brother. 

ViGDis.     Ingiald's  brother. 

Thord.  And  you've  been  such  a  fool  as  to  take 
him  in.  To  take  in  Hall's  murderer.  Ingiald's  brother's 
murderer. 

ViGDis.     It  was   a  fair  fight,  Thord. 

Thord.  It  —  was  —  a  —  fair  fight.  A  —  fair  — 
fight.     Ingiald's    brother.     A    fair    fight. 

ViGDis.     They  fought  with  swords. 

Thord.  In  my  house.  Here.  Ingiald's  brother's 
murderer.     And  you've  let  him  in.     Where  is  he.? 

ViGDis.  In  the  sheep-fold  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
for  the  present.  That's  a  good  place.  They'd  never 
look  among  the  sheep. 

Thord.  My  head  is  like  the  seven  mills  of  Milltown. 
In  my  house.  O,  my  head.  O  miserable  man.  It'll 
be  my  death.  It's  not  enough  that  I  must  have  a 
headache,  and  come  home  tired  out,  but  I  must  have 
Ingiald  down  on  me.  He'll  burn  the  house.  He  will. 
He  will.  I  know  Ingiald.  He'll  burn  the  house.  He's 
sure  to  find  out.  And  if  he  doesn't  burn  the  house 
he'll  put  a  blood-fine  on  me.     He'll  fine  me  a  flock  of 


t 

86     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

sheep.  It's  not  enough  that  I'm  fratted  to  death  and 
find  no  supper  ready,  but  I  must  lose  my  cattle  and  be 
murdered  in  my  bed.     But  there,  it's  always  the  way. 

ViGDis.  You'll  be  nothing  of  the  sort.  Have  pity 
on  poor  Thorolf. 

Thord.  Pity.  Let  poor  Thorolf  show  a  little  pity 
on  me.  I'm  a  ruined  man.  Ingiald  will  drag  me  up 
and  down  by  the  hair.  He'll  hit  me  in  the  ribs  with  his 
great  fists.  He  will.  He  will.  I  know  Ingiald.  And 
you  go  and  take  in  a  murderer.  A  murderer.  If  it 
had  been  a  murderer  of  some  common  man  I  wouldn't 
have  minded.      But  the  murderer  of  Ingiald's  brother. 

ViGDis.  I  tell  3^ou  it  was  not  a  murder.  Thorolf's 
no  murderer.  He's  like  a  woman  in  most  things, 
Thorolf  is.  I  tell  you  it  was  not  a  murder.  It  was 
a  fair  fight. 

Thord.  So  Ingiald'll  say.  Yes,  he'll  say.  I'll 
take  your  sheep,  he'll  say.  And  them  nice  cows  too, 
Thord,  he'll  say.  It  was  a  nice  fair  fight,  he'll  say,  so 
now  I'll  burn  you  in  your  bed.  I  know  Ingiald.  Ahoo. 
Ahoo. 

ViGDis.  Well.  I  wouldn't  be  a  cry  baby.  There's 
worse  things  than  being  burned  in  our  beds.  Come. 
Be  a  man,  Thord.  One  would  think  you  were  afraid 
of  dying. 

Thord.  0  hold  your  nagging  tongue,  for  God's 
sake.     Ahoo.     y\hoo. 

ViGDis.  It  will  all  come  right,  Thord.  Look.  I'll 
get  you   some   nice  supper. 

Thord.  You'll  drive  me  mad  in  another  minute. 
Supper,  Ingiald's  knife'U  be  the  only  supper  I  shall  have. 
Hold  your  nagging  tongue,  and  let  me  die  in  peace. 

ViGDis.     It's    very   likely    that    we'll    have    Ingiald 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  87 

here  before  long.  He's  not  a  man  to  wait  on  the  road. 
He  comes  hke  an  eagle,  Ingiald  does. 

Thord.     O  what  shall  I  do  ?     What  shall  I  do  ? 

ViGDis.  Do  .''  Put  a  bold  face  on  it.  There's  no 
danger  where  there's  no  fear.  Look  him  in  the  face 
and  tell  him  to  walk  out  of  here. 

Thord.  He  may  be  coming  now.  Look  out  at  the 
door,  Vigdis.     Is  he  com.ing  ^ 

ViGDis.  There's  some  one  coming.  It's  a  party  of 
men.     A  dozen,  quite. 

Thord.     O,  I'm  not  fit  to  die.     I'm  not. 

Vigdis.  Be  a  man.  They're  coming  quickly. 
They'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  Yes.  It's  Ingiald. 
There's  his  red  cloak.  He's  walking  ahead  of  the  rest. 
Be  a  man  now,  Thord.     It'll  be  all  right. 

Thord.     O!     O! 

Vigdis.  Can  you  think  of  any  better  plan  than  the 
sheep-fold  ^ 

Thord.     O  ! 

Vigdis.  O,  why  didn't  I  marry  a  man  ?  You  don't 
think  he'd  look  in  the  sheep-fold,  with  all  the  sheep  in 
it .?     I'm  sure  he  wouldn't. 

Thord.  O,  Thorolf's  all  right.  It's  myself  I'm 
thinking  of.     It's  myself.     O ! 

Vigdis.     I  wonder  you  aren't  ashamed. 

Thord.  I  was  getting  on  so  well.  I'd  have  been 
able  to   buy   Rapp's   field   next   year  — 

Vigdis.  Think  of  poor  Thorolf.  Brace  up,  man. 
Ingiald'll  suspect  at  once  if  he  sees  you  like  that. 
What's  your  life  ?  What's  my  life  .?  It's  our  guest's 
life  that   matters. 

Thord.  An  idle  vagrant's  life  better  than  mine.'' 
If  it  had   been   the   King,   now. 


88     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.  Thord,  brace  yourself.  Thorolfs  safe  in 
the  sheep-fold.  Ingiald  can  prove  nothing.  Your 
guest's  life  depends  on  the  way  you  look.  Don't  flop 
there  like  a  done-out  old  gather-up  of  a  bachelor. 
Swell  your  chest  out.  Put  a  scowl  on,  like  a  Viking, 
That's  better.     Here  they  are.     [A  knock  at  the  door.] 

Thord.     O,  I'm  a  dead  man. 

ViGDis.  O,  I  could  shake  you.  For  Thorolfs  sake, 
perk  yourself.  [A  knock.]  Come  in.  Go  and  open 
the  door,  Thord. 

Thord.  I  can't.  How  can  you  ask  me  to  open  the 
door .? 

[A  knock.] 

ViGDis.     Go  on,  Thord.     Go.     Open,  man. 

Thord.  Vigdis.  You  don't  mind.  You  open. 
Your  nerves  aren't  like  mine. 

Vigdis.     Quick,  Thord.     It's  for  the  host  to  open. 

Voices.  Open  within  there.  Open  in  the  name 
of  the  law. 

Vigdis.  I  must  open,  then.  [Goes  to  the  door.]  Come 
in,    come    in.     [Enter   Ingiald    and   Men-at-arms.] 

Ingiald.     God  save  all  here.     Thank  you,  Vigdis. 

Vigdis.  My  man's  not  quite  himself,  to-night,  Lord 
Ingiald. 

Ingiald.  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  What  pin  pricks 
now,  Thord  ^ 

Thord.     Ah.     Oh. 

Ingiald  [looking  keenly  at  both  of  them].  I  should 
have  thought  life  was  pretty  quiet  up  here.  No  fight- 
ing.    No  gambling.     No  anxiety  — 

Vigdis.  My  man  gets  run  down,  Lord  Ingiald. 
It's  going  to  these  fairs  that  does  it.  I've  known  him 
come  home  in  a  way  of  speaking,  and  he'd  be  all  cold. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  89 

like  a  dead  man.  It's  the  nerves  and  that  on  the  brain. 
[A  pause.]  What  could  I  do  for  you,  Lord  Ingiald  : 
Will  you  not  sit  down  I  Is  there  anything  you  would 
like  to  take  }  It's  not  often  we  see  you  up  here.  Why, 
I  don't  think  I've  seen  you,  not  since  last  October 
twelve  month. 

Ingiald.  No.  I  daresay  not.  \He  goes  over  to 
Thord  and  hangs  him  on  the  shoulder.] 

Thord.     Ow.     What    is    it,    Ingiald  ?     Don't. 

Ingiald.     I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  my  friend. 

Thord.  A  —  a  talk.  O  yes.  Yes,  that.  Yes. 
Very  nice. 

Ingiald  [to  his  Men].  Go  out  and  stand  by  the 
door.     Don't  budge  till  I  tell  you. 

Men.     Ay,  ay,  sir.     [Exeunt.] 

Vigdis.  Wouldn't  your  men  be  pleased  to  take  a 
drop  of  something }  You've  surely  not  come  all  the 
way  fom  Sheep  Isles.  What  is  it  we  could  do  for  you. 
Lord  Ingiald  .^  Perhaps  you  would  let  me  hear  it. 
My  man's  not  himself  to-night.  Were  you  wanting 
any  hands  to  help  get  your  harvest  in  ?  Tell  me  what 
it  is. 

Ingiald.  Thank  you,  Vigdis.  I  want  to  have  a 
talk  with  Thord,  here. 

Thord.  I  —  I'm  so  ill,  Ingiald.  It's  the  weather. 
Vigdis  will  do  any  business.  My  head.  My  head  is 
bad.     I'm  a  martyr  to  my  head  in  wet  weather. 

Ingiald.  I  know  what  it  is.  My  own  head  gives 
me  tortures.  But  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you.  Per- 
haps you  would  ask  your  wife  to  mull  me  a  little  ale  ? 

Vigdis.  You  must  let  me  mull  it  in  here,  then. 
The  kitchen  fire's  out. 

Ingiald.     I    should    be    delighted ;  but    my    nerves 


90 


SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 


can't  bear  the  smell  of  ale  being  mulled.  It  always 
upsets  me.  [To  Thord.]  Perhaps  you  would  ask 
your  wife  to  —  to  look  at  the  sunset.  Most  beautiful 
sunset,  outside. 

ViGDis.  Yes,  we  were  looking  at  it  this  last  half 
hour. 

Ingiald.  I  see.  Well,  Vigdis,  I  must  talk  to 
Thord  here  privately.  Will  you  go  into  the  next  room  ? 
I  won't  keep  you  long. 

Vigdis.  Certainly,  Lord  Ingiald.  Now,  I  won't 
have  you  telling  my  man  about  any  of  those  naughty 
baggages  at  Reykjavik.  He  knows  quite  enough,  al- 
ready. 

Ingiald.  I  won't  mention  a  single  baggage.  [lie 
calls  to  a  Soldier.]  Erik,  just  attend  the  lady  for  a 
moment.  [Aside  to  Soldier.]  See  she  doesn't  leave 
the  room. 

Vigdis.  I  know  you  men.  [She  tries  to  catch  Thord' s 
eye.]  I'll  make  him  repeat  every  word  you  say.  [She 
goes  out  xinconcernedly.] 

Ingiald  [aside].  Well.  If  you're  not  a  wonder. 
[Sharply.]  Now  Thord,  my  friend,  I've  got  only  one 
thing  to  say  to  you.     Where's  Thorolf .? 

Thord.     Thorolf. 

Ingiald.     Well  ? 

Thord.     Which  Thorolf  would  that  be  ? 

Ingiald.     You  know  quite  well  which  Thorolf. 

Thord.  0,  you  mean  old  Thorolf  of  the  Ridge .? 
Ah  yes.     A  fat  man.     He  — 

Ingiald.     Now,  Thord.     [Glares  at  him.] 

Thord.  O,  young  Thorolf.  KoU  o'  Dales'  lad. 
He  goes  to  school,  now. 

Ingiald  [rapping  the  table].     Thord. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  9 1 

Thord.     Don't,  Ingiald.     You  put  a  fellow  out  so. 

Ingiald.  Where's  Thorolf  ?  Vigdis's  cousin.  Your 
cousin,  Thorolf. 

Thord.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  That  Thorolf.  Yes.  An 
idle  blackguard.     Yes. 

Ingiald.     Yes.     That  Thorolf.     Where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     I've  not  seen  him,  Ingiald. 

Ingiald.  I  suppose  you've  not  heard  about  him, 
either  ? 

Thord.     No. 

Ingiald.     Not  ^     Sure  ? 

Thord.  No.  I  mean  yes.  Of  course  I've  heard 
about  him. 

Ingiald.     About  what  he  has  done  to-day  ? 

Thord.     I  didn't  know  he  did   anything  to-day. 

Ingiald.     You  heard  about  my  brother  ? 

Thord.  Your  poor  brother,  Hall .?  Yes,  I  was  truly 
grieved.     I  was  quite  upset. 

Ingiald.     That's  what  Thorolf  did. 

Thord.     Thorolf.? 

Ingiald.     Now  where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     Your  brother  ? 

Ingiald.     I  see.     You  won't  answer. 

Thord.  Now  don't  be  hasty,  Ingiald.  You're  so 
hasty.  You  don't  give  me  a  chance.  What  is  it  you 
want  to  know  ^ 

Ingiald.     Where  is  Thorolf  ? 

Thord.  I've  not  seen  him,  Ingiald.  How  should 
I  know  where  Thorolf  is  ? 

Ingiald.     He  was  seen  coming  towards  this  house. 

Thord.     Towards  this  house  ? 

Ingiald.     Only  an  hour  ago. 

Thord.     Thorolf  ? 


92     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Ingiald.     No  more  talk,  my  friend.     Where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     I   don't   know,   Ingiald.     I   don't   know. 

Ingiald.  You  lying  knave.  You  creeping  worm. 
You  dog  of — .  I'll  ram  this  scabbard  down  your 
throat.  You  say  you  don't  know.  Where  is  he  ? 
Any  more  of  your  lies  and  I'll  squeeze  your  lying  tongue 
off. 

Thord.  Don't,  Ingiald.  Don't.  You're  hurting. 
Don't,  man. 

Ingiald.     Well.     No  more  of  your  lies,  then. 

Thord.  Now  you've  hurt  me.  I  shall  have  a  sore 
throat  for  a  week. 

Ingiald.  Do  you  good.  [A  pause.]  Now  then, 
Thorolf's  here.     Isn't  he.?     Hey? 

Thord.     Yes,  Ingiald. 

Ingiald.  I  thought  we  should  come  to  it  sooner 
or  later.  See  what  comes  of  being  patient.  So  he's 
here.     Hidden  somewhere  ? 

Thord.     Yes,  Ingiald. 

Ingiald.     Where  is  he  hidden  ? 

Thord.  O,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  that.  If  I  told 
you  that  I'd  have  to  leave  the  country.  No  one  would 
speak  to  me,  if  I  told  you  that. 

Ingiald.  That's  nothing  to  do  with  me.  Now 
then.     Where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     O,  I  couldn't. 

Ingiald.     Hey .? 

Thord.  I'd  have  to  leave  this  farm.  Have  mercy, 
Ingiald. 

Ingiald.     Mercy,  eh  ? 

Thord.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I'm  not  strong,  Ingiald. 
My  head. 

Ingiald.     D'ye  see  this  little  knife  of  mine  ? 


THE  LOCKED  CHEST  93 

Thord.  O,  don't,  Ingiald.  Ingiald,  you  don't  mean. 
Ingiald,  I'd  have  to  leave  the  country  if  I  told  you. 

Ingiald.  Look  here,  Thord.  I'm  going  to  get 
Thorolf  before  I  go.     Let's  understand  each  other. 

Thord.  O,  yes,  Ingiald.  I'll  do  anything.  I'll 
say  anything.  But  I  can't  tell  you  where  he  is.  I  can't. 
I'd  have  to  leave  the  country. 

Ingiald.  Well.  You  needn't  tell  me  where  he  is. 
Not  in   so   many  words.     D'ye   understand  ? 

Thord.     0,  Ingiald. 

Ingiald.  Let's  come  to  some  arrangement.  You 
don't  want  your  neighbours  to  call  you  a  traitor.  I 
understand  that.  You  don't  want  me  to  burn  your 
house  down,  or  to  stick  this  knife  into  you.  I  under- 
stand that,  too.  Well.  You  give  up  Thorolf  to  me 
quietly. 

Thord.  I  can't,  Ingiald.  They'd  know.  They'd 
know.     Vigdis  would  tell  them. 

Ingiald.     I  don't  say  "betray  him,"  you  silly  gowk. 

Thord.     But  what  then,  Ingiald  .? 

Ingiald.  Give  me  some  hint  where  he  is,  so  that 
I  can  find  him.  I'll  pretend  to  search  the  house,  and 
light  on  him,  as  it  were,  by  chance.     Come  now. 

Thord.     But  — 

Ingiald.  Come  now.  D'ye  see  this  bag  ?  [Pro- 
duces a  purse.] 

Thord.     Yes. 

Ingiald.  D'ye  hear  it  ?  Eh  ?  Chink.  Eh  ? 
Chink  ?     Where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     I  couldn't. 

Ingiald.  Come  now.  Hark  ?  Three  silver  marks. 
Eh  ?     Just  whisper.     Where  ?     Come  now. 

Thord.     Three  silver  marks. 


94     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Ingiald.  Three  silver  marks.  You  needn't  say  it 
right  out.     Hear  it  jingle. 

Thord.     It's  a  lot  of  money. 

Ingiald.  You  could  do  with  it,  eh.?  Come  now, 
old  man,  where  is  he  ? 

Thord.     Let  me  weigh  it  in  my  hand. 

Ingiald.  Certainly.  Here  you  are.  Now  then. 
Whisper  here.  Where  is  he  ?  Tell  me  where  he  is. 
Where  is  he  ?     Is  he  in  the  chest  here  .? 

Thord.     No,  not  in  the  chest. 

Ingiald.     No  }     What  is  in  the  chest  ? 

Thord.     Things  of  Vigdis's. 

Ingiald.     Is  he  upstairs,  then  ?     Eh  ?     Upstairs  ? 

Thord.     No.     He's  not  upstairs. 

Ingiald.     Outside?     Eh.'' 

Thord  [putting  the  bag  on  the  table].     Ingiald. 

Ingiald.     Yes.     Well.     What  is  it  ? 

Thord.     You  won't  take  it  to  heart  my  hiding  him  .? 

Ingiald.     No.     No.     Of  course  I  won't. 

Thord.  Swear  you  won't.  You  won't  fine  me  ? 
Nor  take  my  cattle  ? 

Ingiald.     Not  if  you  tell  me  where  he  is. 

Thord.  You'll  search  the  house  first,  Ingiald.  In 
pretence  ? 

Ingiald.  Yes.  I'll  pretend  to  search  the  house. 
And  then  .? 

Thord.     You  see  that  door  there  ? 

Ingiald.     Yes.     Yes.     What  then  ? 

Thord.  You  must  go  through  that  door.  No. 
No.     Go  through  this  door,  and  then  round  the  house. 

Ingiald.     Yes  ?     Where  to  .?     Among  the  ricks  } 

Thord.     No.     Not  among  the  ricks. 

Ingiald.     In  the  dairy  ? 


THE  LOCKED   CHEST 


95 


Thord.     You  might  look  in  the  dairy. 
Ingiald.     Where  else,  eh  ? 
Thord.     Just  to  the  left  of  the  dairy. 
Ingiald.     The  cowbyre,  eh  ^ 

No.     No.     You  might  look  in  the  cowbyre, 


Thord. 
though. 
Ingiald 
Thord. 
Ingiald 
Thord. 


Where  else  ? 
Ingiald. 

Yes. 
Swear  you  won't  tell  any  one.     Swear  you 
won't  say  I  told  you. 

Ingiald.     Of  course  I  won't  tell  any  one. 

Thord.  You  might  count  the  sheep.  You  under- 
stand } 

Ingiald.     To  the  left  of  the  dairy,  eh  ? 

Thord.     To  the  left  of  the  dairy. 

Ingiald.     I'll  see  them  counted.     Thank'ee,  Thord. 

Thord.     Now,  you'll  pretend  to  look  upstairs  .'' 

Ingiald.     Yes.     We'll  let  in  Vigdis,  now. 

Thord.     No,  not  Vigdis,  no. 

Ingiald.     Yes,  man.     Hey  there.     Erik ! 

Erik.     Sir. 

Ingiald.     Tell  the  lady  to  come  in. 

Erik.  Tell  the  lady  to  come  in,  sir.  You  may  go 
in  now,  mum.     [Efiter  Vigdis.] 

Vigdis.     Well.     Have  you  had  a  nice  talk  ^ 

Ingiald.  No.  Not  so  nice  as  I  could  have  wished, 
perhaps.  Your  husband's  very  low  to-night.  Excuse 
me  a  moment.     Hi   there,   Hrapp,   Hoskuld. 

Soldiers  [entering].     Sir.     Sir. 

Ingiald.  I'm  sorry,  Vigdis.  But  I  must  search 
the  house.  Your  husband  has  given  me  permission. 
I  must  look  through  all  the  rooms. 


96     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.     Search  my  house,  indeed. 

Ingiald.  I  won't  disarrange  it  more  than  can  be 
helped. 

ViGDis.  Search  my  house,  indeed.  For  what  will 
you  search  my  house  .'* 

Ingiald.     For  your  cousin,  Thorolf. 

ViGDis.  My  —  cousin  —  Thorolf.  And  why  should 
you  want  my  cousin  Thorolf,  I  should  like  to  know  } 

Ingiald.  Come,  Vigdis,  I'm  sorry.  Now  don't  let's 
have  a  scene. 

Vigdis.  A  scene,  indeed.  And  why  should  you  have 
a  scene  .?  I'm  not  going  to  have  my  house  pulled  to 
pieces. 

Ingiald.     They  won't  do  any  harm,  Vigdis. 

Vigdis.  Harm  or  no  harm,  I  won't  have  any  one 
spying  around  my  house.  I  never  heard  of  such  im- 
pudence. This  is  my  house.  It  isn't  Thorolf's  house. 
What  d'ye  want  Thorolf  for  ? 

Ingiald.  You  know  perfectly  well,  Vigdis,  what  I 
want  Thorolf  for. 

Vigdis  [to  Thord].  And  I'm  to  be  insulted  in  my 
ow^n  house  !  I  wonder  you  sit  there  and  let  your  wife 
be  insulted.  As  for  you,  Ingiald,  for  all  your  lordship, 
you  never  had  more  manners  than  one  brought  up  in 
a  pigsty.  It  is  what  I  might  expect  from  you.  But 
as  for  you,  Thord,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Defend  your 
wife,  man.  Don't  let  these  louts  throw  the  whole 
house  overboard. 

Ingiald  [to  his  Men].  Upstairs  with  you.  Search 
every  room  in  the  house. 

Vigdis.  How  dare  you  insult  a  woman  so!  You 
great  captains  want  humbling.  If  I  were  a  man  now, 
you  wouldn't  dare. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  97 

Erik  [to  Ingiald].      Beg  pardon,  captain. 

Ingiald.     What  is  it  ? 

Erik.     That   box,   captain.     [Poi^its  to   the  chest.] 

Ingiald.     Well     What  about  it .? 

Erik.     I  was  thinking  he  might  be  in  that  box. 

Ingiald.  O,  nonsense.  Upstairs  with  you.  [They 
all  run  upstairs.]  [To  Thord.]  You  come,  too,  Thord. 
If  anything's  missing  you'll  blame  my  men. 

Thord  [aside].  Let  Vigdis  go,  Ingiald.  Take 
Vigdis. 

Ingiald  [glancing  at  her].  No.  She  suspects 
nothing.     You  come. 

Thord.  No.  I  don't  think  she  suspects.  No, 
she  suspects  nothing. 

Vigdis.     Where  are  you  going,  Thord  .'' 

Thord.     Upstairs  with  Ingiald. 

Vigdis.  Am  I  married  to  a  man  or  to  a  bleating  old 
sheep  with  the  staggers  ?  Do  you  call  yourself  a  human 
being,   Thord  }     [Aside.]     What's  Ingiald  going  to  do  .? 

Ingiald.     Come,  Thord.     Come  on,  now. 

Thord  [to  Vigdis].  Get  supper  ready.  Don't 
stand  there.     [Exit  with  Ingiald.] 

Vigdis.  Get  supper  ready.  Get  supper  ready. 
What's  he  going  to  do  .?  Why  didn't  Thord  give  me  a 
hint  ?  He'll  search  the  sheep-fold.  Of  course  he'll 
search  the  sheep-fold.  He'll  be  going  to  the  fold  in 
another  minute.  Why  did  I  leave  him  in  the  sheep-fold  .? 
Why  did  I  let  him  stay  at  all .?  What  can  I  do  .?  What 
can  I  do  ?  He'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  What's  this 
bag  of  money  ?  What's  this  bag  of  money  ?  Thord's 
sold  him.  It's  blood  money,  I  know  it.  What  can  I 
do?     O,   God.     What   can   I   do? 

Thord  [above].     Vigdis. 
n 


98     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.     Yes,   Thord. 

Thord.  All  right.  Nothing.  I  only  wanted  to 
know  if  you  were  there. 

ViGDis.  What  can  I  do .?  I  know.  I  know.  It's 
a  bare  chance.  It's  a  bare  chance.  [She  runs  softly 
and  swiftly  from  the  room.  In  two  seconds  she  returns 
with   Thorolf.]     [Noise  above,  and  shouts.] 

ViGDis.     Quiet.    Quiet.     Not  a  whisper. 

Thorolf.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

ViGDis.     Not  a  whisper. 

Thord  [above].     Vigdis.     Are  you  there  still } 

ViGDis.  I'm  still  here,  Thord.  What's  the  matter 
with  you.?  Into  the  chest,  Thorolf.  Get  into  the 
chest.     [She  opens  chest.] 

Thorolf  [kissing  her].     Good-bye,  in  case,  Vigdis. 

ViGDis.  O,  you  silly  boy.  Get  in.  I  must  lock 
you  in.  Don't  sneeze,  for  God's  sake.  Press  your 
upper  lip  if  you  want  to  sneeze.  It's  a  bare  chance, 
Thorolf.  [She  locks  the  chest  on  him  and  takes  key.  Then 
she  hurriedly  and  softly  puts  bread  and  beer  upon  the  table 
as  for  supper.]  [Reenter  Ingiald,  Thord,  and  Sol- 
diers.] 

Vigdis.  Well,  my  lord.  Did  you  find  my  cousin 
Thorolf  by   any  chance.? 

Ingiald.     I've  not  finished  looking  yet. 

Vigdis.  Haven't  you }  You  might  look  on  the 
dresser  there.  I  would  if  I  were  you.  Or  in  the  oven. 
Yes,  look  in  the  oven,  Ingiald.  Show  him  the  oven, 
Thord. 

Ingiald  [to  some  of  his  Men].  Step  into  the  kitchen 
and  look  in  the  oven.  You.  Come  with  me,  the  rest 
of  you.     We  must  look  through  the  farmyard. 

Vigdis.     Don't  disturb  your  elder  brother,  Ingiald. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  99 

Ingiald.     What  elder  brother  ? 

ViGDis.     The  donkey. 

Ingiald.  Ah,  you're  funny,  Vigdls.  Well,  he  laughs 
best  who  laughs  last,  /  say.     [Exit  with  Men.] 

ViGDis.     Thord.     Thord  Goddi. 

Thord.     Yes,  Vigdis. 

ViGDis.     What's  this  bag  of  money  here  ? 

Thord.     Bag  of  money  ? 

Vigdis.     This  bag  of  money  here.     What  Is   It  ? 

Thord.     It's  what  I  brought  from  market. 

Vigdis.     It's  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Thord.     Oh,  no.     Nor  it  is. 

Vigdis.     Well  ? 

Thord.  Well  I  I  suppose  Ingiald  left  it  there  when 
he  came  in. 

Vigdis.  Did  you  see  Ingiald  leave  it  there  ?  O 
what  am  I  thinking  of?     [Aside.] 

Thord.  Now  for  Heaven's  sake  stop  nagging. 
Hark! 

Vigdis.     What  is  it  ? 

Thord.  I  thought  I  heard  a  noise  in  the  yard.  A 
cry. 

Vigdis.     My  God.     A  cry.     [They  go  to  the  door.] 

Thord.     I  hope  they  won't  find  him. 

Vigdis.  Thank  God  I  did  what  I  could  for  him.  O, 
may  Heaven  blind   them. 

Thord.  I'm  afraid  they're  sure  to  find  him.  What 
was  that } 

Vigdis.  My  God.  They're  brave,  aren't  they, 
thirteen    to    one  ? 

Thord.     Didn't  you  hear  a  sort  of  groan  then  } 

Vigdis.     Poor  Thorolf.     Poor  Thorolf. 

Thord.     We  did  our  best,  Vigdis. 


lOO     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

ViGDis.  Yes.  May  God  always  help  you,  Thord, 
as  well  as  you  helped  Thorolf! 

Thord.  Yes,  I  shall  always  be  glad  I  did  my  best 
for   him. 

ViGDis.  Yes,  Thord.  I  suppose  you  will  be.  I 
hope  you  will  be. 

Thord.     Poor  fellow. 

ViGDis.     Poor  Thorolf. 

Thord.  Don't  take  on,  Vigdis.  We  must  all  die. 
Ah.  Ah.  Come  away  from  the  door.  Come.  {Cries 
without.] 

Vigdis  [covering  her  eyes].  O,  my  dear,  my  dear. 
O  Thorolf,   little   brown-haired   Thorolf. 

Thord.     There.     There.     It's    all    over    now. 

Vigdis.     0,  my  Thorolf,  my  cousin  Thorolf. 

Thord.  There.  There.  Now  don't  take  on. 
Don't  take  on  ;  you  get  on  my  nerves  when  you  cry  like 
that. 

Vigdis.  O,  you  had  brown  hair,  Thorolf.  Bonny  hair 
you  had.     O,  my  boy,  my  poor  cousin.     [Cries  without.] 

Thord  [aside].  They've  got  him.  They've  got  him. 
[lie  rubs  his  hands.]  We  all  owe  Heaven  a  death.  Poor 
Thorolf.      Poor    fellow.     And    him    so    young. 

Vigdis.  It  was  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  on  a  sunny 
morning  to  see  him  going  over  the  hills.  O  Thorolf, 
you  were  the  joy  of  a  woman's  eyes.  You  were  as 
stately  as  a  stag.  You  were  as  comely  as  a  king's  dar- 
ling. O,  my  boy,  my  poor  cousin,  my  own  dear,  my 
heart's  darling,  Thorolf! 

Thord.  And  him  so  young.  And  such  a  promising 
young  fellow.  To  be  cut  short.  Life  is  but  a  span.  And 
him  so  young.  Idle,  vicious,  drunken  blackguard, 
it's  a  good  job  you  are  cut  short.     [More  noise  without.] 


THE  LOCKED  CHEST  lOI 

ViGDis.  He  had  soft  brown  hair  with  threads  of 
gold  in  it  hke  the  bright  bird's  feathers.  Now  it's 
dabbled  with  blood,  dabbled  \\\xh  blood,  dabbled  with 
blood. 

Thord.     Dabbled    with    blood.     O!     O    me! 

ViGDis.  O  young  man,  O  treasure  of  the  west,  O 
white,  comely,  handsome  Thorolf!  Yours  will  be  a 
cold  bride  bed  under  the  winter  grass. 

Thord.     O  do  for  Heaven's  sake  be  quiet. 

ViGDiS.      A  cold  bed,  a  lonely  bed,  a  white  bed. 

Thord.  You'll  waste  none  of  our  sheets,  laying  of 
him  out.     Let  me  tell  you  that. 

ViGDis.  Three  white  lonely  candles  in  a  draught, 
three  flames  guttering,  but  you  will  lie  still  beneath 
them,   Thorolf. 

Thord.  Vigdis.  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad  ? 
Have  done  now. 

Vigdis.  O  bonny  Thorolf.  Swimming  and  rowing 
and  going  among  young  men,  you  were  like  a  king. 
None  could  sail  a  boat  like  you.  No  queen  ever  loosed 
her  hair  about  a  lovelier  lover  than  you.  You  were 
courteous,  you  were  kind,  you  had  strength  and  beauty, 
you  were  brave ;  now  you  will  lie  in  the  ground,  and 
the  sheep  will  crop  the  grass  there. 

Thord.  Here.  Vigdis.  A  little  of  that  goes  a 
long  way.  Thorolf's  dead.  Here's  Ingiald  coming 
back.  Hold  your  noise  now,  for  Heaven's  sake.  {Re- 
enter Ingiald  with  Men.] 

Ingiald.     I've  a  bone  to  pick  with  you,  Thord. 

Vigdis.  Bring  me  my  dead.  Give  me  my  dead, 
you  butchers,  you  bloody  men. 

Ingiald.     D'ye  hear.'' 

Vigdis.     Thirteen   to  one.     Thirteen  to  one.     You 


I02     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

butchers.  You  bloody  men.  Bring  me  my  dead. 
Bring  me  my  dead  darling.  You  cowards.  You 
cowards. 

Ingiald.     What's  wrong  with  you,  Vigdis  .'* 

ViGDis.  Let  me  look  upon  the  boy's  dead  face. 
You  butchers.  O  fair,  white  face.  O  white  face  with 
the  red  blood  upon  it.     O  my  boy,  my  dear  boy,  Thorolf. 

Ingiald.  He'll  be  a  white  face  when  I  get  him  and 
that's  a  fact,  Vigdis.  I'll  promise  you  that  much. 
Thord,  I'll  wring  your  ears  off. 

Vigdis.  Where  is  my  dead  lad  .''  You  dogs.  You 
butchers.     Take  me  to  his  corpse. 

Ingiald.     Your  dead   lad  .?     There's  no  dead  lad. 

Vigdis.     Not  dead,  O,  Heaven  !    .[Pretends  to  szvoon.] 

Thord.     What .? 

Ingiald.  I'll  tell  you  what,  you  creeping  rot.  You 
cur.     You  Judas.     What  have  you  done  with  him  ? 

Thord.     Done  with  him  .? 

Ingiald.  With  Thorolf.  Eh?  Where  is  he  ?  Eh? 
What  have  you  done  with  him  ? 

Thord.     I've  done  nothing,  Ingiald.     Nothing. 

Ingiald.     Don't  tell  me  you've  done  nothing. 

Thord.     I  didn't  do  anything  with  him. 

Ingiald,  You  lying  knave.  D'ye  dare  to  sit  there 
and  say  you  haven't  got  him  off? 

Thord.     I  haven't  got  him  off. 

Ingiald.     You  lie. 

Thord.     How  could  I  have  got  him  off? 

Ingiald.  How?  How  do  I  know  how?  But  I'll 
know  how.  I'll  flay  you  alive.  I'll  skin  you  and  salt 
you.     I'll  — I'll  — I'll  — 

Thord.  O  don't.  Ingiald,  I  swear  —  I  swear  I 
thought  you'd  get  him. 


THE  LOCKED   CHEST  103 

Ingiald.     I  tell  you,  you've  got  him  off. 

Thord.     I  haven't,  Ingiald. 

Ingiald  [to  his  Men].  Look  at  him.  Look  at 
that  liar,  here.  I  come  here  to  this  liar  and  tell  him  I 
want  Thorolf.  And  he  cringes  and  whines  and  licks 
my  boots.  So  I  just  speak  to  him  kindly,  like  a  father. 
I'm  always  kindly  and  like  a  father.  I'm  too  kind. 
And  he  cringes  and  whines,  and  begs  me  not  to  hit  him. 
Only  spare  my  precious  hide,  he  says,  and  I'll  tell  you 
where  Thorolf  is. 

The  Men.  Hear  that  now.  He  betrayed  him,  etc. 
Then  he  wants  a  little  money,  for  saying  where  Thorolf 
is.  The  money  on  the  table  there.  Three  marks  of 
silver,  no  less.  He'd  sell  his  own  mother  for  a  little 
money.     Wouldn't  you,  eh  ? 

Thord.     I  wouldn't. 

Ingiald.  You  would,  you  know  it.  Three  marks 
of  silver  you  begged.  And  then  you  told  me  to  look 
in  the  sheep-fold. 

The  Men.  Treacherous  swine.  His  own  cousin. 
His  own  cousin. 

Ingiald.  And.  then  he  sneaks  his  man  off  while 
we're  rummaging  in  the  wrong  place.  And  now  he 
expects  me  to  be  out  three  marks  of  silver. 

The  Men.  Tie  him  to  the  bull's  tail,  master;  and 
let's  hunt  him. 

Ingiald.  So  you'd  sell  your  cousin,  would  you,  and 
then  try  to  go  back  on  your  bargain  ?  [Going  to  him.] 
Where  have  you  taken  Thorolf  to.?     Eh? 

Thord.  He  was  in  the  sheep-fold  where  I  told  you, 
Ingiald.     He  was.     Indeed  he  was. 

Ingiald.  O.  Was  he  .?  And  where  is  he  now  .?  Gone 
to  Olaf's,   I   suppose. 


I04     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Thord.     He  may  have  gone  to  Olafs. 

The  Men.  Olafs  is  a  likely  place.  We'd  better 
go  on  there  at  once. 

Ingiald.  Lord  help  you,  Thord,  if  we  don't  get  him. 
Understand  ?     I   mean  it.     Come  on  there. 

A  Man.    You  never  looked  in  that  chest  yet,  captain. 

Ingiald.  O  yes,  that  chest.  [He  tries  lid.]  Where's 
the  key,  Thord  ? 

Thord.     Ask  Vigdis. 

Ingiald.     Where's  the  key  of  this  chest,  Vigdis  .? 

Vigdis.  Key  of  the  chest,  indeed.  Who  are  you  to 
ask  for  my  keys  .?  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  spying 
in  my  chests.  You  and  your  gang  have  done  harm 
enough  here.     You'll  get  no  key.     Let  that  be  enough. 

Ingiald.     Come  now.     The  key. 

Vigdis.     I  tell  you,  you  shall  not  have  the  key. 

The  Men.     Break  it  open,  captain. 

A  Man.  O  let  the  chest  alone.  ThorolfU  be  safe 
at  Olafs  if  we  don't  hurry. 

Ingiald.     Give  me  the  key. 

Thord.     Give  up  the  key  at  once. 

Vigdis.  I  tell  you,  you  shall  not  have  the  key. 
You've  thrown  the  house  overboard  as  it  is.     Get  out 

now.     Go. 

Ingiald.     Give  me  that  key  at  once,  Vigdis. 

Vigdis  [flinging  key  on  the  floor].  Take  it  then, 
and  bad  luck  go  with  it.     Here  it  is.     Now  open. 

Ingiald  [gizying  it  hack].  Thank  you.  That's 
all  I  wanted.     Now,  Thord.     Give    back  that  bag  of 

money. 

Thord.     O,   Ingiald,  you   gave  it  to  me. 
Ingiald.     Now  you  will  give  it  back. 
Thord.     O,    Ingiald. 


THE   LOCKED   CHEST  105 

ViGDis.  Give  it,  Thord.  Give  it,  you  Judas,  you. 
D'ye  think  I'll  have  blood  money  in  the  house?  Give 
it  up  at  once.     [The  Men  go  out  and  linger  at  the  door.] 

Ingiald.     Come  on  now. 

ViGDis  [taking  money  hag\.  I've  only  one  thing 
to  say  to  you,  Ingiald.  I  say,  take  your  money  and 
get  out  of  my  house,  now.  [She  makes  him  back  to  the 
door.]  Take  your  dirty  blood  money.  [She  smites  him 
over  the  face  with  the  vioney  bag  and  drives  him  out.  She 
watches  them  go.]  Go  on  to  Olaf's  with  you,  and  try 
some  other  Judas.  That's  all  I've  to  say  to  you,  my 
lord.  [She  turns  and  unlocks  chest.  Their,  instead  of 
opening,  she  turns  and  looks  at  Thord.  Thord  goes  to 
the  door  and  looks  out,  comes  back,  and  sits  on  chest. 
ViGDis  backs  azvay  from,   him.] 

Thord.  Well.  They've  gone.  [A  pause.]  They've 
gone.  [No  answer.]  Can't  you  answer  when  I  speak 
to  you  ? 

ViGDis.  Yes.  I  can  answer.  Listen  to  me,  Thord 
Goddi.  You  and  I  will  part  from  now.  You  took 
money  to  betray  Thorolf,  your  guest  and  my  cousin. 
I  always  knew  you  for  a  mean  man.  Now  I  know  you 
are  base,  and  a  dastard,  and  a  dog.  God  forgive  me, 
I  once  loved  you.  Pah.  I  let  you  kiss  me.  I  held  you 
in  my  arms.  There.  There.  There.  Take  it.  [She 
flings  her  wedding  ring  at  him.]  Now  we'll  part,  my 
sir.     I  thank  God  I  never  bore  you  a  child. 

Thord  [laughing  nervously].  I've  got  a  headache. 
I  can't  — -  Ow  —  [The  chest  lid  rises.  Thord  leaps  from 
it.     Thorolf   appears.]     Thorolf! 

Thorolf.     Thorolf! 

Thord.  Thorolf,  I  didn't  mean  —  I  swear  I  didn't. 
I  didn't  mean.     It  was  only  a  joke.     I'll  explain. 


Io6     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Thorolf.     Thord.     Pah.     You're  not  worth  it. 

Thord.  O  Thorolf.  You  shall  have  —  I'll  give 
you  my  money.     All  of  it  — 

Thorolf.     Pah.     Vigdis,  my  dear,  where  are  they.? 

ViGDis.  They've  gone,  Thorolf.  We  can  slip  away 
to  Broadfirth  now.  It's  quite  safe.  Come.  Come. 
We'll  go  together,  my  friend.     [They  turn  to  go.\ 

Thord.     I'll  change  my  religion. 

CURTAIN 


THE    POST  OFFICE! 

BY 

RABINDRANATH   TAGORE 


1  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  by  special  arrange- 
ment with  The  Macmillan  Company,  Publishers. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 
the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


The  whole  Hterary  world  rejoiced  with  Tagore's 
native  India  when  in  191 3  he  received  the  Nobel  prize 
for  "idealistic  literature."  Tagore,  born  in  1861,  has 
had  back  of  hnn  generations  of  intellectuality,  and  has 
lived  a  life  of  ease,  yet  his  loving  and  lovable  soul  has 
made  him  a  spokesman  for  world-wide  humanity. 
There  has  been  with  him  both  opportunity  and  inclina- 
tion to  develop  and  adorn  every  department  of  litera- 
ture with  idealism,  imagery,  beauty,  and  a  spiritual 
zeal.  These  qualities  of  style  have  been  expressed 
in  a  hundred  or  more  volumes  of  poems,  essays,  and 
stories  ebullient  with  joy  of  life,  the  love  of  truth, 
and  reverence  for  humanity. 

There  is  in  Tagore's  thought  a  kinship  to  Burns' 
unconcern  for  rank,  and  Whitman's  distinction  of 
common  things.  Blake  taught  the  meaning  in  the 
Christian  thought  of  spirituality  in  the  child;  and 
other  poets,  having  a  deep  sense  of  the  divinity  of 
childhood,  have  reverentially  expressed  it  in  many 
memorable  lines.  But  the  very  soul  of  Tagore  bears 
fruit  in  "The  Post  Office,"  a  simple  little  play  full  of 
imagery  carrying  lofty  thought. 


THE    POST    OFFICE 

Dramatis  Persons 

Madhav 

Amal,  his  adopted  child 

Sudha,  a  little  flower  girl 

The  Doctor 

Dairyman 

Watchman 

Gaffer 

Village  Headman,  a  bully 

King's  Herald 

Royal  Physician 

ACT   I 

,  [Madhav' s  House] 

Madhav.  What  a  state  I  am  in !  Before  he  came, 
nothing  mattered  ;  I  felt  so  free.  But  now  that  he 
has  come,  goodness  knows  from  where,  my  heart  is 
filled  with  his  dear  self,  and  my  home  will  be  no  home 
to  me  when  he  leaves.     Doctor,  do  you  think  he  — 

Physician.  If  there's  life  in  his  fate,  then  he  will 
live  long.  But  what  the  medical  scriptures  say,  it 
seems  — 

Madhav.     Great  heavens,  what .? 

Physician.  The  scriptures  have  it:  "Bile  or  pal- 
sey,  cold  or  gout  spring  all  alike." 

109 


no     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Madhav.  Oh,  get  along,  don't  fling  your  scrip- 
tures at  me ;  you  only  make  me  more  anxious ;  tell 
me  what  I  can  do. 

Physician  [taking  snuf].  The  patient  needs  the 
most  scrupulous  care. 

Madhav.     That's  true ;    but  tell  me  how. 

Physician.  I  have  already  mentioned,  on  no  ac- 
count must  he  be  let  out  of  doors. 

Madhav.  Poor  child,  it  is  very  hard  to  keep  him 
indoors  all  day  long. 

Physician.  What  else  can  you  do  ?  The  autumn 
sun  and  the  damp  are  both  very  bad  for  the  little 
fellow  —  for  the  scriptures  have  it : 

"In  wheezing,  swoon  or  in  nervous  fret, 
In  jaundice  or  leaden  eyes  — •" 

Madhav.  Never  mind  the  scriptures,  please. 
Eh,  then  we  must  shut  the  poor  thing  up.  Is  there  no 
other  method  "^ 

Physician.  None  at  all:  for,  "In  the  wind  and 
in  the  sun  —  " 

Madhav.  What  will  your  "in  this  and  in  that" 
do  for  me  now  ?  Why  don't  you  let  them  alone  and 
come  straight  to  the  point }  What's  to  be  done  then  ^ 
Your  system  is  very,  very  hard  for  the  poor  boy; 
and  he  is  so  quiet  too  with  all  his  pain  and  sickness. 
It  tears  my  heart  to  see  him  wince,  as  he  takes  your 
medicine. 

Physician.  The  more  he  winces,  the  surer  is  the 
effect.  That's  why  the  sage  Chyabana  observes: 
"In  medicine  as  in  good  advices,  the  least  palatable 
ones  are  the  truest."  Ah,  well !  I  must  be  trotting 
now.     [Exit.\ 

[Gaffer  enters] 


THE  POST  OFFICE  III 

Madhav.     Well,  I'm  jiggered,  there's  Gaffer  now. 

Gaffer.     Why,  why,  I  won't  bite  you. 

Madhav.  No,  but  you  are  a  devil  to  send  children 
off  their  heads. 

Gaffer.  But  you  aren't  a  child,  and  you've  no 
child  in  the  house ;   why  worry  then  ? 

Madhav.  Oh,  but  I  have  brought  a  child  into  the 
house. 

Gaffer.     Indeed,  how  so  ^ 

Madhav.  You  remember  how  my  wife  was  dy- 
ing to  adopt  a  child  ? 

Gaffer.  Yes,  but  that's  an  old  story;  you  didn't 
like  the  idea. 

Madhav.  You  know,  brother,  how  hard  all  this 
getting  money  in  has  been.  That  somebody  else's 
child  would  sail  in  and  waste  all  this  money  earned  with 
so  much  trouble  —  Oh,  I  hated  the  idea.  But  this 
boy  clings  to  my  heart  in  such  a  queer  sort  of  way  — 

Gaffer.  So  that's  the  trouble!  And  your  money 
goes  all  for  him  and  feels  jolly  lucky  it  does  go  at  all. 

Madhav.  Formerly,  earning  was  a  sort  of  passion 
with  me;  I  simply  couldn't  help  working  for  money. 
Now,  I  make  money  and  as  I  know  it  is  all  for  this 
dear  boy,  earning  becomes  a  joy  to  me. 

Gaffer.     Ah,  well,  and  where  did  you  pick  him  up  ? 

Madhav.  He  is  the  son  of  a  man  who  was  a  brother 
to  my  wife  by  village  ties.  He  has  had  no  mother 
since  infancy;  and  now  the  other  day  he  lost  his  father 
as  well. 

Gaffer.  Poor  thing :  and  so  he  needs  me  all  the 
more. 

Madhav.  The  doctor  says  all  the  organs  of  his 
little    body    are  at   loggerheads  with    each    other,  and 


112     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

there  isn't  much  hope  for  his  Hfe.  There  is  only  one 
way  to  save  him  and  that  is  to  keep  him  out  of  this 
autumn  wind  and  sun.  But  you  are  such  a  terror ! 
What  with  this  game  of  yours  at  your  age,  too,  to  get 
children  out  of  doors  ! 

Gaffer.  God  bless  my  soul !  So  I'm  already  as 
bad  as  autumn  wind  and  sun,  eh !  But,  friend,  I 
know  something,  too,  of  the  game  of  keeping  them  in- 
doors. When  my  day's  work  is  over  I  am  coming  in 
to  make  friends  with  this  child  of  yours.     [Exit.\ 

[Amal  enters] 

Amal.     Uncle,  I  say,  Uncle  ! 

Madhav.     Hullo  !     Is  that  you,  Amal  ? 

Amal.     Mayn't  I  be  out  of  the  courtyard  at  all  ? 

Madhav.     No,  my  dear,  no. 

Amal.  See,  there  where  Auntie  grinds  lentils  in 
the  quirn,  the  squirrel  is  sitting  with  his  tail  up  and 
with  his  wee  hands  he's  picking  up  the  broken  grains 
of  lentils  and  crunching  them.     Can't  I  run  up  there  ? 

Madhav,     No,  my  darling,  no. 

Amal.  Wish  I  were  a  squirrel !  —  it  would  be 
lovely.     Uncle,  why  won't  you  let  me  go  about  ? 

Madhav.     Doctor  says  it's  bad  for  you  to  be  out. 

Amal.     How  can  the  doctor  know  ^ 

Madhav.  What  a  thing  to  say !  The  doctor 
can't  know  and  he  reads  such  huge  books  ! 

Amal.  Does  his  book-learning  tell  him  every- 
thing .? 

Madhav.     Of  course,  don't  you  know! 

Amal  [zvith  a  sigh].  Ah,  I  am  so  stupid  !  I  don't 
read  books. 

Madhav.  Now,  think  of  it;  very,  very  learned 
people  are  all  like  you  ;   they  are  never  out  of  doors. 


THE  POST  OFFICE  1 13 

Amal.     Aren't  they  really  ? 

Madhav.  No,  how  can  they  ?  Early  and  late 
they  toil  and  moil  at  their  books,  and  they've  eyes  for 
nothing  else.  Now,  my  little  man,  you  are  going  to  be 
learned  when  you  grow  up;  and  then  you  will  stay  at 
home  and  read  such  big  books,  and  people  will  notice 
you  and  say,  "he's  a  wonder." 

Amal.  No,  no.  Uncle,  I  beg  of  you  by  your  dear 
feet  —  I  don't  want  to  be  learned,  I  won't. 

Madhav.  Dear,  dear;  it  would  have  been  my 
saving  if  I  could  have  been  learned. 

Amal.  No,  I  would  rather  go  about  and  see  every- 
thing that  there  is. 

Madhav.  Listen  to  that!  See!  What  will  you 
see,  what  is  there  so  much  to  see  ? 

Amal.  See  that  far-away  hill  from  our  window 
—  I  often  long  to  go  beyond  those  hills  and  right 
away. 

Madhav.  Oh,  you  silly  !  As  if  there's  nothing  more 
to  be  done  but  just  get  up  to  the  top  of  that  hill  and 
away !  Eh !  You  don't  talk  sense,  my  boy.  Now 
listen,  since  that  hill  stands  there  upright  as  a  barrier, 
it  means  you  can't  get  beyond  it.  Else,  what  was  the 
use  in  heaping  up  so  many  large  stones  to  make  such 
a  big  affair  of  it,  eh  ! 

Amal.  Uncle,  do  you  think  it  is  meant  to  prevent 
your  crossing  over  ?  It  seems  to  me  because  the  earth 
can't  speak  it  raises  its  hands  intothe  sky  and  beckons. 
And  those  who  live  far  and  sit  alone  by  their  win- 
dows can  see  the  signal.  But  I  suppose  the  learned 
people  — 

Madhav.     No,  they  don't  have  time  for  that  sort  of 
nonsense.     They  are  not  crazy  like  you. 
I 


114     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Amal.     Do  you   know,  yesterday  I   met  some  one 
quite  as  crazy  as  I  am. 

Madhav.  Gracious  me,  really,  how  so  ? 
Amal.  He  h'ad  a  bamboo  staff  on  his  shoulder 
with  a  small  bundle  at  the  top,  and  a  brass  pot  in  his 
left  hand,  and  an  old  pair  of  shoes  on;  he  was  making 
for  those  hills  straight  across  that  meadow  there.  I 
called  out  to  him  and  asked,  "Where  are  you  going.?" 
He  answered,  "I  don't  know,  anywhere!"  I  asked 
again,  "Why  are  you  going.?"  He  said,  "I'm  going 
out  to  seek  work."  Say,  Uncle,  have  you  to  seek 
work  ? 

Madhav.     Of    course    I    have    to.     There's    many 
about  lookmg  for  jobs. 

Amal.  How  lovely !  I'll  go  about,  like  them  too, 
findmg  thmgs  to  do. 

Madhav.  Suppose  you  seek  and  don't  find.? 
Then  — 

Amal.  Wouldn't  that  be  jolly .?  Then  I  should 
go  farther!  I  watched  that  man  slowly  walking  on 
with  his  pair  of  worn-out  shoes.  And  when  he  got  to 
where  the  water  flows  under  the  fig  tree,  he  stopped 
and  washed  his  feet  in  the  stream.  Then  he  took 
out  from  his  bundle  some  gram-flour,  moistened  it 
with  water  and  began  to  eat.  Then  he  tied  up  his 
bundle  and  shouldered  it  again ;  tucked  up  his  cloth 
above  his  knees  and  crossed  the  stream.  I've  asked 
Auntie  to  let  me  go  up  to  the  stream,  and  eat  my  gram- 
flour  just  like  him. 

Madhav.     And  what  did  your  Auntie  say  to  that .? 
Amal.     Auntie  said,  "Get  well  and  then  I'll  take  you 
over  there."     Please,  Uncle,  when  shall  I  get  well .? 
Madhav.     It  won't  be  long,  dear. 


THE  POST  OFFICE  115 

Amal.  Really,  but  then  I  shall  go  right  away  the 
moment  I'm  well  again. 

Madhav.     And  where  will  you  go  ? 

Amal.  Oh,  I  will  walk  on,  crossing  so  many  streams, 
wading  through  water.  Everybody  will  be  asleep 
with  their  doors  shut  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  I  will 
tramp  on  and  on  seeking  work  far,  very  far. 

Madhav.  I  see  !  I  think  you  had  better  be  getting 
well  first ;   then  — 

Amal.  But  then  you  won't  want  me  to  be  learned, 
will  you,  Uncle  ? 

Madhav.     What  would  you  rather  be  then  ? 

Amal.  I  can't  think  of  anything  just  now;  but  I'll 
tell  you  later  on. 

Madhav.  Very  well.  But  mind  you,  you  aren't 
to  call  out  and  talk  to  strangers  again. 

Amal.     But  I  love  to  talk  to  strangers  ! 

Madhav.     Suppose  they  had  kidnapped  you  ? 

Amal.  That  would  have  been  splendid !  But  no 
one  ever  takes  me  away.  They  all  want  me  to  stay 
in  here. 

Madhav.  I  am  off  to  my  work  —  but,  darling, 
you  won't  go  out,  will  you  ? 

Amal.  No,  I  won't.  But,  Uncle,  you'll  let  me 
be  in  this  room  by  the  roadside. 

[Exit  Madhav.] 

Dairyman.     Curds,  curds,  good  nice  curds. 

Amal.     Curdseller,  I  say,  Curdseller. 

Dairyman.  Why  do  you  call  me?  Will  you  buy 
some  curds  .? 

Amal.     How  can  I  buy  ?     I  have  no  money. 

Dairyman.  What  a  boy!  Why  call  out  then? 
Ugh  !     What  a  waste  of  time. 


Il6     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENT ATUE   AUTHORS 

AviAL.     I  would  go  with  you  if  I  could. 

Dairyman.     With  me  .^ 

Amal.  Yes,  I  seem  to  feel  homesick  when  I  hear 
you  call  from  far  down  the  road. 

DAiR"i^iAN  [lowering  his  yoke-pole].  WTiatever  are 
you  doing  here,  my  child  t 

Amal.  The  doctor  says  I'm  not  to  be  out,  so  I  sit 
here  all  day  long. 

Dairyman.  My  poor  child,  whatever  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ?  • 

Amal.  I  can't  tell.  You  see  I  am  not  learned,  so 
I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  Say, 
Dairyman,  where  do  you  come  from  ? 

Dairyman.     From  our  village. 

Amal.     Your  village  ?     Is  it  very  far  ? 

Dairyman.  Our  village  lies  on  the  River  Shamli 
at  the  foot  of  the  Panch-mura  hills. 

Amal.  Panch-mura  hills !  Shamli  river !  I  won- 
der. I  may  have  seen  your  village.  I  can't  think 
when,  though  ! 

D.\iryman.  Have  you  seen  it  ?  Been  to  the  foot 
of  those  hills  ? 

A.MAL.  Never.  But  I  seem  to  remember  having 
seen  it.  Your  village  is  under  some  ver>'  old  big 
trees,  just  by  the  side  of  the  red  road  —  isn't  that 
so .'' 

Dairym.\n.     That's  right,  child. 

Amal.     And  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  cattle  grazing. 

Dairy\l\n.  How  wonderful !  Aren't  there  cattle 
grazing  in  our  village  !     Indeed,  there  are  ! 

Am.\l.  And  your  women  with  red  sarees  fill  their 
pitchers  from  the  river  and  carry  them  on  their  heads. 

Dairyman.     Good,  that's  right.     Women  from  our 


THE  POST  OFFICE  ll" 

dairy  village  do  come  and  draw  their  water  from  the 
river;  but  then  it  isn't  everyone  who  has  a  red  saree 
to  put  on.  But,  my  dear  child,  surely  you  mu^  have 
been  there  for  a  walk  some  time. 

A.MAL.  Really,  Dairvman,  never  been  there  at  all. 
But  the  first  day  doctor  lets  me  go  out,  30U  are  going 
to  take  me  to  your  village. 

Dairyman.     I  will,  my  child,  with  pleasure. 

Amal.  And  you'll  teach  me  to  cry  curds  and 
shoulder  the  yoke  like  you  and  walk  the  long,  long 
road  .' 

Dairyman.  Dear,  dear,  did  you  ever  r  W  hy  should 
you  sell  curds  .'  No,  you  will  read  big  books  and  be 
learned. 

.\mal.  No.  I  never  want  to  be  learned  —  I'll  be 
like  you  and  take  my  curds  from  the  village  by  the 
red  road  near  the  old  banyan  tree,  and  I  will  hawk  it 
from  cottage  to  cottage.  Oh,  how  do  you  en.-  — 
"Curd,  curd,  good  nice  curd!"  Teach  me  the  tune, 
\w\\  you  .' 

Dairyman.  Dear,  dear,  teach  you  the  tune;  what 
an  idea  ! 

.■\mal.  Please  do.  I  love  to  hear  it.  I  can't  tell 
5'ou  how  queer  I  feel  when  I  hear  you  cry  out  from 
the  bend  of  that  road,  through  the  line  of  those  trees ! 
Do  you  know  I  feel  like  that  when  I  hear  the  shrill  cr\- 
of  kites  from  almost  the  end  of  the  sky  ? 

Dairyman.  Dear  child,  will  you  have  some  curds? 
Yes,  do. 

.\mal.     But  I  have  no  money. 

DAiR"i-MAN.  Xo,  no,  no,  don't  talk  of  money ! 
You'll  make  me  so  happv  if  you  have  a  little  curds 
from  me. 


Il8     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Amal.     Say,  have  I  kept  you  too  long  ? 

Dairyman.  Not  a  bit ;  it  has  been  no  loss  to  me 
at  all ;  you  have  taught  me  how  to  be  happy  selling 
curds.     [Exit.] 

Amal  [intoning].  Curds,  curds,  good  nice  curds  — 
from  the  dairy  village  —  from  the  country  of  the 
Panch-mura  hills  by  the  Shamli  bank.  Curds,  good 
curds;  in  the  early  morning  the  women  make  the 
cows  stand  in  a  row  under  the  trees  and  milk  them, 
and  \n  the  evening  they  turn  the  milk  into  curds. 
Curds,  good  curds.  Hello,  there's  the  watchman  on 
his  rounds.  Watchman,  I  say,  come  and  have  a  word 
with  me. 

Watchman.  What's  all  this  row  you  are  making.'' 
Aren't  you  afraid  of  the  likes  of  me  .? 

Amal.     No,  why  should  I  be .? 

Watchman.     Suppose  I  march  you  off  then  .? 

Amal.  Where  will  you  take  me  to  ^.  Is  it  very 
far,  right  beyond  the  hills  .'' 

Watchman.  Suppose  I  march  you  straight  to  the 
King .? 

Amal.  To  the  King !  Do,  will  you  ^  But  the  doc- 
tor won't  let  me  go  out.  No  one  can  ever  take  me  away. 
I've  got  to  stay  here  all  day  long. 

Watchman.  Doctor  won't  let  you,  poor  fellow ! 
So  I  see  !  Your  face  is  pale  and  there  are  dark  rings 
round  your  eyes.  Your  veins  stick  out  from  your 
poor  thin  hands. 

Amal.     Won't  you  sound  the  gong,  Watchman  ? 

Watchman.     Time  has  not  yet  come. 

Amal.  How  curious  !  Some  say  time  has  not  yet 
come,  and  some  say  time  has  gone  by!  But  surely 
your  time  will  come  the  moment  you  strike  the  gong ! 


THE  POST  OFFICE 


119 


Watchman.  That's  not  possible;  I  strike  up  the 
gong  only  when  it  is  time. 

Amal.  Yes,  I  love  to  hear  your  gong.  When  it 
is  midday  and  our  meal  is  over,  Uncle  goes  off"  to  his 
work  and  Auntie  falls  asleep  reading  her  Ramayana, 
and  in  the  courtyard  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
our  doggie  sleeps  with  his  nose  in  his  curled-up  tail ; 
then  your  gong  strikes  out,  "Dong,  dong,  dong!" 
Tell  me  why  does  your  gong  sound  .'' 

Watchman.  My  gong  sounds  to  tell  the  people, 
Time  waits  for  none,  but  goes  on  forever. 

Amal.     Where,  to  what  land  ?    ' 

Watchman,     That  none  knows. 

Amal.  Then  I  suppose  no  one  has  ever  been  there ! 
Oh,  I  do  wish  to  fly  with  the  time  to  that  land  of  which 
no  one  knows  anything. 

Watchman.  All  of  us  have  to  get  there  one  day, 
my  child. 

Amal.     Have  I  too  ^ 

Watchman.     Yes,  you  too  ! 

Amal.     But  doctor  won't  let  me  out. 

Watchman.  One  day  the  doctor  himself  may  take 
you  there  by  the  hand. 

Amal.  He  won't;  you  don't  know  him.  He  only 
keeps  me  in. 

Watchman.  One  greater  than  he  comes  and  lets 
us  free. 

Amal.  When  will  this  great  doctor  come  for  me  ? 
I  can't  stick  in  here  any  more. 

Watchman.     Shouldn't  talk  like  that,  my  child. 

Amal.  No.  I  am  here  where  they  have  left  me  — 
I  never  move  a  bit.  But  when  your  gong  goes  ofi^,  dong, 
'  dong,  dong,  it  goes  to  my  heart.     Say,  Watchman  ? 


I20     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Watchman.     Yes,  my  dear. 

Amal.  Say,  what's  going  on  there  in  that  big 
house  on  the  other  side,  where  there  is  a  flag  flying 
high  up  and  the  people  are  always  going  in  and  out  ? 

Watchman.  Oh,  there  \  That's  our  new  Post 
Office. 

Amal.     Post  Office  ?     Whose  .? 

Watchman.     Whose  ?     Why,  the  King's,  surely  ! 

Amal.  Do  letters  come  from  the  King  to  his  office 
here .''        ^ 

Watchman.  Of  course.  One  fine  day  there  may  be 
a  letter  for  you  in  there. 

Amal.  A  letter  for  me .?  But  I  am  only  a  little 
boy. 

Watchman.  The  King  sends  tiny  notes  to  little 
boys. 

Amal.  Oh,  how  lovely !  When  shall  I  have  my 
letter  '^.      How  do  you  guess  he'll  write  to  me  .? 

Watchman.  Otherwise  why  should  he  set  his  Post 
Office  here  right  in  front  of  your  open  window,  with 
the  golden  flag  flying? 

Amal.  But  who  will  fetch  me  my  King's  letter 
when  it  comes  .'' 

Watchman.  The  King  has  many  postmen.  Don't 
you  see  them  run  about  with  round  gilt  badges  on 
their  chests .? 

Amal.     Well,  where  do  they  go .? 

Watchman.  Oh,  from  door  to  door,  all  through 
the  country. 

Amal.     I'll  be  the  King's  postman  when  I  grow  up. 

Watchman.  Ha !  ha !  Postman,  indeed !  Rain 
or  shine,  rich  or  poor,  from  house  to  house  delivering 
letters  —  that's  very  great  work  ! 


THE  POST  OFFICE  121 

Amal.  That's  what  I'd  hke  best.  What  makes 
you  smile  so  ?  Oh,  yes,  your  work  is  great  too.  When 
it  is  silent  everywhere  in  the  heat  of  the  noonday, 
your  gong  sounds,  Dong,  dong,  dong,  —  and  sometimes 
when  I  wake  up  at  night  all  of  a  sudden  and  find  our 
lamp  blown  out,  I  can  hear  through  the  darkness  your 
gong  slowly  sounding,  Dong,  dong,  dong ! 

Watchman.  There's  the  village  headman  !  I  must 
be  olT.  If  he  catches  me  gossipmg  with  you  there'll 
be  a  great  to  do. 

Amal.     The  headman  ?     Whereabouts  is  he  .? 

Watchman.  Right  down  the  road  there;  see  that 
huge  palm-leaf  umbrella  hopping  along  .f'  That's 
him  ! 

Amal.  I  suppose  the  King's  made  him  our  head- 
man here  ^ 

Watchman.  Made  him  ?  Oh,  no!  A  fussy  busy- 
body! He  knows  so  many  w^ays  of  making  himself 
unpleasant  that  everybody  is  afraid  of  him.  It's 
just  a  game  for  the  likes  of  him,  making  trouble  for 
everybody.  I  must  be  off  nowM  Mustn't  keep  work 
waiting,  you  know !  I'll  drop  in  again  to-morrow 
morning  and  tell  you  all  the  news  of  the  town.     [Exit.] 

Amal.  It  would  be  splendid  to  have  a  letter  from 
the  King  every  day.  I'll  read  them  at  the  window. 
But,  oh  !  I  can't  read  writing.  Who'll  read  them  out 
to  me,  I  wonder  !  Auntie  reads  her  Ramayana  ;  she 
may  know  the  King's  writing.  If  no  one  will,  then  I 
must  keep  them  carefully  and  read  them  when  I'm 
grown  up.  But  if  the  postman  can't  find  me  ?  Head- 
man, Mr.  Headman,  may  I  have  a  word  with  you  ? 

Headman.  Who  is  yelling  after  me  on  the  high- 
way .''     Oh,  you  wretched  monkey  ! 


122     SHORT  PLJYS  BY  REPRESENTATIFE  AUTHORS 

Amal.  You're  the  headman.  Everybody  minds 
you. 

Headman  [looking  pleased].  Yes,  oh  yes,  they  do ! 
They  must ! 

Amal.     Do  the  King's  postmen  listen  to  you  ? 

Headman.  They've  got  to.  By  Jove,  I'd  Hke  to 
see  — 

Amal.  Will  you  tell  the  postman  it's  Amal  who 
sits  by  the  window  here  } 

Headman.     What's  the  good  of  that  ? 

Amal.     In  case  there's  a  letter  for  me. 

Headman.  A  letter  for  you !  Whoever's  going  to 
write  to  you  ? 

Amal.     If  the  King  does. 

Headman.  Ha!  ha!  What  an  uncommon  little 
fellow  you  are!  Ha!  ha!  the  King  indeed,  aren't 
you  his  bosom  friend,  eh  !  You  haven't  met  for  a 
long  while  and  the  King  is  pining,  I  am  sure.  Wait 
till  to-morrow  and  you'll  have  your  letter. 

Amal.  Say,  Headman,  why  do  you  speak  to  me  in 
that  tone  of  voice  ?     Are  you  cross  .? 

Headman.  Upon  my  word  !  Cross,  indeed  !  You 
write  to  the  King  !  Madhav  is  devilish  swell  nowadays. 
He'd  made  a  little  pile;  and  so  kings  and  padishahs 
are  everyday  talk  with  his  people.  Let  me  find  him 
once  and  I'll  make  him  dance.  Oh,  you  snipper- 
snapper!  I'll  get  the  King's  letter  sent  to  your  house 
—  indeed  I  will ! 

Amal.  No,  no,  please  don't  trouble  yourself  about 
it. 

Headman.  And  why  not,  pray !  I'll  tell  the 
King  about  you  and  he  won't  be  very  long.  One  of 
his  footmen  will  come  along  presently  for  news  of  you. 


THE   POST  OFFICE  1 23 

Madhav's  impudence  staggers  me.  If  the  King  hears  of 
this,  that'll  take  some  of  his  nonsense  out  of  him. 
[Exit.] 

Amal.     Who    are   you    walking   there  ?     How   your 
anklets  tinkle  !     Do  stop  a  while,  dear,  won't  you  .? 
[A  Girl  enters] 

Girl.  I  haven't  a  moment  to  spare ;  it  is  already 
late! 

Amal.  I  see,  you  don't  wish  to  stop ;  I  don't  care 
to  stay  on  here  either. 

Girl.  You  make  me  think  of  some  late  star  of  the 
morning!     Whatever's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Amal.  I  don't  know;  the  doctor  won't  let  me 
out. 

Girl.  Ah  me !  Don't  then  !  Should  listen  to  the 
doctor.  People'll  be  cross  with  you  if  you're  naughty. 
I  know,  always  looking  out  and  watching  must  make 
you  feel  tired.  Let  me  close  the  window  a  bit  for 
you. 

Amal.     No,  don't,  only  this    one's    open.     All    the 
others  are  shut.     But  will  you  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 
Don't  seem  to  know  you. 
Girl.     I  am  Sudha. 
Amal.     What  Sudha  ? 

Sudha.     Don't  you  know  ?     Daughter  of  the  flower- 
seller  here. 

Amal.  What  do  you  do  ? 
Sudha.  I  gather  flowers  in  my  basket. 
Amal.  Oh,  flower  gathering!  That  is  why  your 
feet  seem  so  glad  and  your  anklets  jingle  so  merrily 
as  you  walk.  Wish  I  could  be  out  too.  Then  I  would 
pick  some  flowers  for  you  from  the  very  topmost 
branches  right  out  of  sight. 


124     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SuDHA.  Would  you  really  ?  Do  you  know  more 
about  flowers  than  I  ? 

Amal.  Yes,  I  do,  quite  as  much.  I  know  all 
about  Champa  of  the  fairy  tale  and  his  seven  brothers. 
If  only  they  let  me,  I'll  go  right  into  the  dense  forest 
where  you  can't  find  your  way.  And  where  the  honey- 
sipping  humming-bird  rocks  himself  on  the  end  of  the 
thinnest  branch,  I  will  flower  out  as  a  champa.  Would 
you  be  my  sister  Parul .? 

SuDHA.  You  are  silly  !  How  can  I  be  sister  Parul 
when  I  am  Sudha  and  my  mother  is  Sasi,  the  flower- 
seller  ?  I  have  to  weave  so  many  garlands  a  day. 
It  would  be  jolly  if  I  could  lounge  here  like  you  ! 

Amal.     What  would  you  do  then,  all  the  day  long.? 

Sudha.  I  could  have  great  times  with  my  doll 
Benay  the  bride,  and  Meni  the  pussycat  and  —  but  I 
say  it  is  getting  late  and  I  mustn't  stop,  or  I  won't 
find  a  single  flower. 

Amal.     Oh,  wait  a  little  longer;    I  do  like  it  so! 

Sudha.  Ali,  we.ll  —  now  don't  you  be  naughty. 
Be  good  and  sit  still  and  on  my  way  back  home  with 
the  flowers  I'll  come  and  talk  with  you. 

Amal.     And  you'll  let  me  have  a  flower  then  ? 

Sudha.     No,  how  can  I  ^.     It  has  to  be  paid  for. 

Amal.  I'll  pay  when  I  grow  up  —  before  I  leave  to 
look  for  work  out  on  the  other  side  of  that  stream 
there. 

Sudha.     Very  well,  then. 

Amal.  And  you'll  come  back  when  you  have  your 
flowers  ^ 

Sudha.     I  will. 

Amal.     You  will,  really  .? 

Sudha.     Yes,  I  will. 


THE  POST  OFFICE  125 

Amal.  You  won't  forget  me  ?  I  am  Amal,  re- 
member that. 

SuDHA.     I  won't  forget  you,  you'll  see.     [Exit.] 

[A  Troop  of  Boys  enter] 

Amal.  Say,  brothers,  where  are  you  all  off  to  ^. 
Stop  here  a  little. 

Boys.     We're  off  to  play. 

Amal.     What  will  you  play  at,  brothers  ? 

Boys.     We'll  play  at  being  ploughmen. 

First  Boy  [shozving  a  stick].  This  is  our  plough- 
share. 

Second  Boy.     We  two  are  the  pair  of  oxen. 

Amal.     And  you're  going  to  play  the  whole  day? 

Boys.     Yes,  all  day  long. 

Amal.  And  you'll  come  back  home  in  the  evening 
by  the  road  along  the  river  bank  .'' 

Boys.     Yes. 

Amal.     Do  you  pass  our  house  on  your  way  home  ? 

Boys.     You  come  out  to  play  with  us,  yes,  do. 

Amal.     Doctor  won't  let  me  out. 

Boys.  Doctor !  Suppose  the  likes  of  you  mind  the 
doctor.     Let's  be  off;    it  is  getting  late. 

Amal.  Don't.  Why  not  play  on  the  road  near 
this  window  ?     I  could  watch  you  then. 

Third  Boy.     What  can  we  play  at  here .? 

Amal.  With  all  these  toys  of  mine  lying  about. 
Here  you  are,  have  them.  I  can't  play  alone.  They 
are  getting  dirty  and  are  of  no  use  to  me. 

Boys.  How  jolly!  What  fine  toys!  Look,  here's 
a  ship.  There's  old  mother  Jatai ;  say,  chaps,  ain't  he 
a  gorgeous  sepoy  .''  And  you'll  let  us  have  them  all .? 
You  don't  really  mind  ? 

Amal.     No,  not  a  bit ;   have  them  by  all  means. 


126     SHORT  PLJYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Boys.     You  don't  want  them  back  ? 

Amal.     Oh,  no,  I  shan't  want  them. 

Boys.     Say,  won't  you  get  a  scolding  for  this  .? 

Amal.  No  one  will  scold  me.  But  will  you  play 
with  them  in  front  of  our  door  for  a  while  every  morn- 
ing .?     I'll  get  you  new  ones  when  these  are  old. 

Boys.  Oh,  yes,  we  will.'  Say,  chaps,  put  these 
sepoys  into  a  line.  We'll  play  at  war;  where  can  we 
get  a  musket  ?  Oh,  look  here,  this  bit  of  reed  will  do 
nicely.     Say,  but  you're  off  to  sleep  already. 

Amal.  I'm  afraid  I'm  sleepy.  I  don't  know,  I 
feel  like  it  at  times.  I  have  been  sitting  a  long  while 
and  I'm  tired ;   my  back  aches. 

Boys.  It's  only  early  noon  now.  How  is  it  you're 
sleepy  }     Listen  !     The  gong's  sounding  the  first  watch. 

Amal.     Yes,  dong,  dong,  dong,  it  tolls  me  to  sleep. 

Boys.  We  had  better  go  then.  We'll  come  in 
again  to-morrow  morning. 

Amal.  I  want  to  ask  you  something  before  you  go. 
You  are  always  out  —  do  you  know  of  the  King's  post- 
men ^. 

Boys.     Yes,  quite  well. 

Amal.     Who  are  they  .''     Tell  me  their  names. 

Boys.  One's  Badal,  another's  Sarat.  There's  so 
many  of  them. 

Amal.  Do  you  think  they  will  know  me  if  there's  a 
letter  for  me .? 

Boys.  Surely,  if  your  name's  on  the  letter  they 
will  find  you  out. 

Amal.  W^hen  you  call  in  to-morrow  morning,  will 
you  bring  one  of  them  along  so  that  he'll  know  me  .? 

Boys.     Yes,  if  you  like. 

CURTAIN 


THE    POST  OFFICE 

ACT   II 

[Amal  in  bed] 

Amal.  Can't  I  go  near  the  window  to-day,  uncle  ? 
Would  the  doctor  mind  that  too  ? 

Madhav.  Yes,  darling,  you  see  you've  made 
yourself  worse  squatting  there  day  after  day. 

Amal.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  know  if  it's  made  me  more 
ill,  but  I  always  feel  well  when  I'm  there. 

Madhav.  No,  you  don't;  you  squat  there  and  make 
friends  with  the  whole  lot  of  people  round  here,  old 
and  young,  as  if  they  are  holding  a  fair  right  under  my 
eaves  —  flesh  and  blood  won't  stand  that  strain.  Just 
see  —  your  face  is  quite  pale. 

Amal.  Uncle,  I  fear  my  fakir'U  pass  and  not  see 
me  by  the  window. 

Madhav.     Your  fakir,  whoever's  that .? 

Amal.  He  comes  and  chats  to  me  of  the  many 
lands  where'he's  been.     I  love  to  hear  him. 

Madhav,  How's  that  ?  I  don't  know  of  any 
fakirs. 

Amal.  This  is  about  the  time  he  comes  in.  I  beg 
of  you,  by  your  dear  feet,  ask  him  in  for  a  moment  to 
talk  to  me  here. 

[Gaffer  enters  in  a  fakir  s  guise] 

Amal.  There  you  are.  Come  here,  Fakir,  by  my 
bedside. 

Madhav.     Upon  my  word,  but  this  is  — 

Gaffer  [winking  hard].     I  am  the  fakir. 

Madhav.     It  beats  my  reckoning  what  you're  not. 

Amal.     Where  have  you  been  this  time.  Fakir .? 

127 


128     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Fakir.     To  the  Isle  of  Parrots.     I  am  just  back. 

Madhav.     The  Parrots'  Isle  ! 

Fakir.  Is  it  so  very  astonishing  ?  Am  I  like  you, 
man.?  A  journey  doesn't  cost  a  thmg.  I  tramp 
just  where  I  like. 

Amal  [clapping].  How  jolly  for  you  !  Remember 
your  promise  to  take  me  with  you  as  your  follower 
when  I'm  well. 

Fakir.  Of  course,  and  I'll  teach  you  such  secrets 
too  of  travelling  that  nothing  in  sea  or  forest  or  moun- 
tain can  bar  your  way. 

Madhav.     What's  all  this  rigmarole  ? 

Gaffer.  Amal,  my  dear,  I  bow  to  nothing  in  sea 
or  mountain  ;  but  if  the  doctor  joins  in  with  this  uncle 
of  yours,  then  I  with  all  my  magic  must  own  myself 
beaten. 

Amal.  No.  Uncle  shan't  tell  the  doctor.  And  I 
promise  to  lie  quiet ;  but  the  day  I  am  well,  off  I  go 
with  the  Fak  r  and  nothing  in  sea  or  mountain  or 
torrent  shall  stand  in  my  way. 

Madhav.  Fie,  dear  child,  don't  keep  on  harping 
upon  going  !     It  makes  me  so  sad  to  hear  you  talk  so. 

Amal.     Tell  me,  Fakir,  what  the  Parrots'  Isle  is  like. 

Gaffer.  It's  a  land  of  wonders;  it's  a  haunt  of 
birds.  There's  no  man ;  and  they  neither  speak 
nor  walk,  they  simply  sing  and  they  fly. 

Amal.     How  glorious  !     And  it's  by  some  sea  ? 

Gaffer.     Of  course.     It's  on  the  sea. 

Amal.     And  green  hills  are  there .? 

Gaffer.  Indeed,  they  live  among  the  green  hills; 
and  in  the  time  of  the  sunset,  when  there  is  a  red  glow 
on  the  hillside,  all  the  birds  with  their  green  wings 
flock  back  to  their  nests. 


THE  POST  OFFICE  129 

Amal.     And  there  are  waterfalls  ! 

Gaffer.  Dear  me,  of  course;  you  don't  have  a 
hill  without  its  waterfalls.  Oh,  it's  like  molten  dia- 
monds; and,  my  dear,  what  dances  they  have !  Don't 
they  make  the  pebbles  sing  as  they  rush  over  them  to 
the  sea.  No  devil  of  a  doctor  can  stop  them  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  birds  looked  upon  me  as  nothing  but  a 
man,  quite  a  trifling  creature  without  wings  —  and 
they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  Were  it  not 
so  I  would  build  a  small  cabin  for  myself  among  their 
crowd  of  nests  and  pass  my  days  counting  the  sea 
waves. 

Amal.     How  I  wish  I  were  a  bird  !     Then  — 

Gaffer.  But  that  would  have  been  a  bit  of  a  job ; 
I  hear  you've  fixed  up  with  the  dairyman  to  be  a  hawker 
of  curds  when  you  grow  up;  I'm  afraid  such  business 
won't  flourish  among  birds;  you  might  land  your- 
self into  serious  loss. 

Madhav.  Really  this  is  too  much.  Between  you 
two  I  shall  turn  crazy.     Now,  I'm  off. 

Amal.  Has  the  dairyman  been,  Uncle  ? 
'  Madhav.  And  why  shouldn't  he  .?  He  won't  bother 
his  head  running  errands  for  your  pet  fakir,  in  and  out 
among  the  nests  in  his  Parrots'  Isle.  But  he  has  left 
a  jar  of  curd  for  you  saying  that  he  is  rather  busy 
with  his  niece's  wedding  in  the  village,  and  he  has 
got  to  order  a  band  at  Kamlipara. 

Amal.  But  he  is  going  to  marry  me  to  his  little 
niece. 

Gaffer.     Dear  me,  we  are  in  a  fix  now. 

Amal.  He  said  he  would  find  me  a  lovely  little 
bride  with  a  pair  of  pearl  drops  in  her  ears  and  dressed 
in  a  lovely  red  saree ;    and  in  the  morning  she  would 


I30     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

milk  with  her  own  hands  the  black  cow  and  feed  me 
with  warm  milk  with  foam  on  it  from  a  brand  new 
earthen  cruse  ;  and  in  the  evenings  she  would  carry  the 
lamp  round  the  cowhouse,  and  then  come  and  sit  by 
me  to  tell  me  tales  of  Champa  and  his  six  brothers. 

Gaffer.  How  delicious !  The  prospect  tempts 
even  me,  a  hermit !  But  never  mind,  dear,  about  this 
wedding.  Let  it  be.  I  tell  you  when  you  wed  there'll 
be  no  lack  of  nieces  in  his  household. 

Madhav.  Shut  up !  This  is  more  than  I  can 
stand.     [Exit.] 

Amal.  Fakir,  now  that  Uncle's  off,  just  tell  me, 
has  the  King  sent  me  a  letter  to  the  Post  Office  ^. 

Gaffer.  I  gather  that  his  letter  has  already  started  ; 
but  it's  still  on  the  way. 

Amal.  On  the  way  ^  Where  is  it  ^  Is  it  on  that 
road  winding  through  the  trees  which  you  can  follow 
to  the  end  of  the  forest  when  the  sky  is  quite  clear 
after  rain  .? 

Gaffer.  That's  so.  You  know  all  about  it  al- 
ready. 

Amal.     I  doj  everything. 

Gaffer.     So  I  see,  but  how? 

Amal.  I  can't  say;  but  it's  quite  clear  to  me.  I 
fancy  I've  seen  it  often  in  days  long  gone  by.  How 
long  ago  I  can't  tell.  Do  you  know  when  ?  I  can  see  it 
all :  there,  the  King's  postman  coming  down  the  hill- 
side alone,  a  lantern  in  his  left  hand  and  on  his  back 
a  bag  of  letters;  climbing  down  for  ever  so  long,  for 
days  and  nights,  and  where  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain the  waterfall  becomes  a  stream  he  takes  to  the 
footpath  on  the  bank  and  walks  on  through  the  rye; 
then    comes    the    sugarcane    field    and    he    disappears 


THE  POST  OFFICE  131 

into  the  narrow  lane  cutting  through  the  tall  stems  of 
sugarcanes;  then  he  reaches  the  open  meadow  where 
the  cricket  chirps  and  where  there  is  not  a  single  man  to 
be  seen,  only  the  snipe  wagging  their  tails  and  poking 
at  the  mud  with  their  bills.  I  can  feel  him  coming 
nearer  and  my  heart  becomes  glad. 

Gaffer.  My  eyes  aren't  young;  but  you  make  me 
see  all  the  same. 

Amal.  Say,  Fakir,  do  j'ou  know  the  King  who  has 
this  Post  Office  .? 

Gaffer.     I  do;   I  go  to  him  for  my  alms  every  day. 

Amal.  Good  !  When  I  get  well,  I  must  have  my 
alms  too  from  him,  mayn't  I  .'' 

Gaffer.  You  won't  need  to  ask,  my  dear,  he'll 
give  it  to  you  of  his  own  accord. 

Amal.  No,  I  would  go  to  his  gate  and  cry,  "Vic- 
tory to  thee,  O  King!"  and  dancing  to  the  tabor's 
sound,  ask  for  alms.     Won't  it  be  nice  .'' 

Gaffer.  It  would  be  splendid,  and  if  you're  with 
me,  I  shall  have  my  full  share.      But  what'll  you  ask  ? 

Amal.  I  shall  say,  "Make  me  your  postman,  that 
I  may  go  about  lantern  in  hand,  delivering  your  letters 
from  door  to  door.     Don't  let  me  stay  at  home  all  day  ! " 

Gaffer.  Wliat  is  there  to  be  sad  for,  my  child, 
even  were  you  to  stay  at  home  ? 

Amal.  It  isn't  sad.  When  they  shut  me  in  here 
first  I  felt  the  day  was  so  long.  Since  the  King's  Post 
Office  I  like  it  more  and  more  being  indoors,  and  as  I 
think  I  shall  get  a  letter  one  day,  I  feel  quite  happy 
and  then  I  don't  mind  being  quiet  and  alone.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  make  out  what'll  be  in  the  King's  letter  ? 

Gaffer.  Even  if  you  didn't  wouldn't  it  be  enough 
if  it  just  bore  your  name  .? 


132     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

[Madhav  enters] 

Madhav.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  trouble  you've 
got  me  into,  between  you  two? 

Gaffer.     What's  the  matter  ? 

Madhav.  I  hear  you've  let  it  get  rumored  about 
that  the  King  has  planted  his  office  here  to  send  mes- 
sages to  both  of  you. 

Gaffer.     Well,  what  about  it .'' 

Madhav.  Our  headman  Panchanan  has  had  it 
told  to  the  King  anonymously. 

Gaffer.  Aren't  we  aware  that  everything  reaches 
the  King's  ears  ? 

Madhav.  Then  why  don't  you  look  out  ?  Why 
take  the  King's  name  in  vain  .?  You'll  bring  me  to 
ruin  if  you  do. 

Amal.     Say,  Fakir,  will  the  King  be  cross  ? 

Gaffer.  Cross,  nonsense !  And  with  a  child  like 
you  and  a  fakir  such  as  I  am.  Let's  see  if  the  King 
be  angry,  and  then  won't  I  give  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind. 

Amal.  Say,  Fakir,  I've  been  feeling  a  sort  of  dark- 
ness coming  over  my  eyes  since  the  morning.  Every- 
thing seems  like  a  dream.  I  long  to  be  quiet.  I 
don't  feel  like  talking  at  all.  Won't  the  King's  letter 
come  ?  Suppose  this  room  melts  away  all  on  a  sud- 
den, suppose  — 

Gaffer  [fanning  Amal].  The  letter's  sure  to  come 
to-day,  my  boy. 

[Doctor  enters] 

Doctor.     And  how  do  you  feel  to-day  .? 

Amal.  Feel  awfully  well  to-day,  Doctor,  All 
pain  seems  to  have  left  me. 

Doctor   [aside  to  Madhav].     Don't   quite  like  the 


THE  POST  OFFICE  133 

look  of  that  smile.  Bad  sign  that,  his  feeling  well! 
Chakradhan  has  observed  — 

Madhav.  For  goodness'  sake,  Doctor,  leave  Chak- 
radhan alone.     Tell  me  what's  going  to  happen  ? 

Doctor.  Can't  hold  him  in  much  longer,  I  fear ! 
I  warned  you  before  —  This  looks  like  a  free  ex- 
posure. 

Madhav.  No,  I've  used  the  utmost  care,  never 
let  him  out  of  doors;  and  the  windows  have  been  shut 
almost  all  the  time. 

Doctor.  There's  a  peculiar  quality  in  the  air  to- 
day. As  I  came  in  I  found  a  fearful  draught  through 
your  front  door.  That's  most  hurtful.  Better  lock 
it  at  once.  Would  it  matter  if  this  kept  your  visitors 
off  for  two  or  three  days."*  If  some  one  happens  to  call 
unexpectedly  —  there's  the  back  door.  You  had 
better  shut  this  window  as  well,  it's  letting  in  the 
sunset  rays  only  to  keep  the  patient  awake. 

Madhav.  Amal  has  shut  his  eyes.  I  expect  he  is 
sleeping.  His  face  tells  me  —  Oh,  Doctor,  I  bring 
in  a  child  who  is  a  stranger  and  love  him  as  my  own, 
and  now  I  suppose  I  must  lose  him  ! 

Doctor.  What's  that  ?  There's  your  headman 
sailing  in !  — ■  What  a  bother !  I  must  be  going, 
brother.  You  had  better  stir  about  and  see  to  the  doors 
being  properly  fastened.  I  will  send  on  a  strong  dose 
directly  I  get  home.  Try  it  on  him  —  it  may  save 
him  at  last,  if  he  can  be  saved  at  all.  [Exeunt  Madhav 
and  Doctor.] 

[The  Headman  enters] 

Headman.     Hello,  urchin  !  — 

Gaffer  [rising  hastily].     'Sh,  be  quiet. 

Amal.     No,    Fakir,    did    you    think    I    was    asleep .? 


134     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

I  wasn't.  I  can  hear  everything;  yes,  and  voices 
far  away.  I  feel  that  mother  and  father  are  sitting  by 
my  pillow  and  speaking  to  me. 

[Madhav  enters] 

Headman.  I  say,  Madhav,  I  hear  you  hobnob 
with  bigwigs  nowadays. 

Madhav.  Spare  me  your  jests.  Headman,  we  are 
but  common  people. 

Headman.     But  your  child  here  is  expecting  a  letter 

from  the  King. 

Madhav.     Don't   you    take    any    notice   of  him,    a 

mere  foolish  boy ! 

Headman.  Indeed,  why  not!  It'll  beat  the  King 
hard  to  find  a  better  family !  Don't  you  see  why  the 
King  plants  his  new  Post  Office  right  before  your 
window  ?  Why  there's  a  letter  for  you  from  the  King, 
urchin. 

Amal  {starting  up].     Indeed,  really! 

Headman.  How  can  it  be  false  .?  You're  the  King's 
chum.  Here's  your  letter  [showing  a  blank  slip  of 
paper].     Ha,  ha,  ha  !     This  is  the  letter. 

Amal.     Please  don't  mock  me.     Say,  Fakir,  is  it  so  .? 

Gaffer.  Yes,  my  dear.  I  as  Fakir  tell  you  it  is 
his  letter. 

Amal.  How  is  it  I  can't  see  ?  It  all  looks  so  blank 
to  me.     What  is  there  in  the  letter,  Mr.  Headman.? 

Headman.  The  King  says,  "I  am  calling  on  you 
shortly;  you  had  better  arrange  puffed  rice  offerings 
for  me.  —  Palace  fare  is  quite  tasteless  to  me  now." 
Ha!   ha!   ha! 

Madhav  [zvith  folded  palms].  I  beseech  you,  Head- 
man, don't  you  joke  about  these  things  — 

Gaffer.     Cutting  jokes  indeed,  dare  he  ! 


THE  POST  OFFICE  I35 

Madhav.     Are  you  out  of  your  mind  too,  Gaffer  ? 

Gaffer.  Out  of  my  mind,  well  then  I  am ;  I  can 
read  plainly  that  the  King  writes  he  will  come  himself 
to  see  Amal,  with  the  state  physician. 

Amal.  Fakir,  Fakir,  'sh,  his  trumpet !  Can't  you 
hear  ? 

Headman.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  fear  he  won't  until 
he's  a  bit  more  off  his  head. 

Amal.  Mr.  Headman,  I  thought  you  were  cross 
with  me  and  didn't  love  me.  I  never  could  think  you 
would  fetch  me  the  King's  letter.  Let  me  wipe  the 
dust  off  your  feet. 

Headman.  This  little  child  docs  have  an  instinct 
of  reverence.  Though  a  little  silly,  he  has  a  good 
heart. 

Amal.  It's  hard  on  the  fourth  watch  now,  I  sup- 
pose—  Hark  the  gong,  "Dong,  dong,  ding,"  "Dong, 
dong,  ding."  Is  the  evening  star  up  .?  How  is  it  I 
can't  see  — 

Gaffer.  Oh,  the  windows  are  all  shut,  I'll  open 
them. 

[A  knocking  outside.] 

Madhav.  What's  that?  —  Who  is  it?  —  what  a 
bother ! 

Voice  [from  outside].     Open  the  door. 

Madhav.  Say,  Headman —  Hope  they're  not 
robbers. 

Headman.  Who's  there  ?  —  It's  Panchanan,  the 
headman,  calls.  —  Aren't  you  afraid  of  the  like  of  me  ? 
Fancy !  The  noise  has  ceased  !  Panchanan's  voice 
carries  far.  —  Yes,  show  me  the  biggest  robbers  !  — 

Madhav  [peeri^ig  out  of  the  zvindozv],  I  should  think 
the  noise  has  ceased;   they've  smashed  the  door. 


136     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

[The  Kings  Herald  enters.] 

Herald.     Our  Sovereign  King  comes  to-night ! 

Headman.     My  God  ! 

Amal.     At  what  hour  of  the  night,  Herald  ? 

Herald.     On  the  second  watch. 

Amal.  When  from  the  city  gates  m}'  friend  the 
watchman  will  strike  his  gong,  "ding  dong  ding,  ding 
dong  ding"  —  then  ? 

Herald.  Yes,  then.  The  King  sends  his  greatest 
physician  to  attend  on  his  young  friend. 

[State  Physician  enters.] 

State  Physician.  What's  this  ?  How  close  it  is 
here !  Open  wide  all  the  doors  and  windows.  [Feel- 
ing Amal's  body.]     How  do  you  feel,  my  child  .? 

Amal.  I  feel  very  well.  Doctor,  very  well.  All 
pain  is  gone.  How  fresh  and  open  !  I  can  now  see  all 
the  stars  twinkling  from  the  other  side  of  the  dark. 

Physician.  Will  you  feel  well  enough  to  leave  your 
bed  with  the  King  when  he  comes  in  the  middle  watches 
of  the  night  ? 

Amal.  Of  course,  I'm  dying  to  be  about  for  ever  so 
long.  I'll  ask  the  King  to  find  me  the  polar  star. 
I  must  have  seen  it  often,  but  I  don't  know  exactly 
which  it  is. 

Physician.  He  will  tell  you  everything.  [To  Mad- 
HAV.]  Will  you  go  about  and  arrange  flowers  through 
the  room  for  the  King's  visit?  [Indicating  the  Head- 
man.]    We  can't  have  that  person  in  here. 

Amal.  No,  let  him  be,  Doctor.  He  is  a  friend. 
It  was  he  who  brought  me  the  King's  letter. 

Physician.  Very  well,  my  child.  He  may  re- 
main if  he  is  a  friend  of  yours. 

Madhav   [whispering  into  Amal's   ear].     My  child. 


THE  POST  OFFICE  ■        137 

the  King  loves  you.  He  is  coming  himself.  Beg  for 
a  gift  from  him.  You  know  our  humble  circum- 
stances. 

Amal.  Don't  you  worry,  Uncle.  —  I've  made  up 
my  mind  about  it. 

Madhav.     What  is  it,  my  child  .? 

Amal.  I  shall  ask  him  to  make  me  one  of  his  post- 
men that  I  may  wander  far  and  wide,  delivering  his 
message  from  door  to  door. 

Madhav  [slapping  his  forehead].     Alas,  is  that  all .? 

Amal.  What'll  be  our  offering  to  the  King,  Uncle, 
when  he  comes  ? 

Herald.     He  has  commanded  puffed  rice. 

Amal.  Puffed  rice  !  Say,  Headman,  you're  right. 
You  said  so.     You  knew  all  we  didn't. 

Headman.  If  you  send  word  to  my  house  then  I 
could  manage  for  the  King's  advent  really  nice  — 

Physician.  No  need  at  all.  Now  be  quiet,  all  of 
you.  Sleep  is  coming  over  him.  I'll  sit  by  his  pillow; 
he's  dropping  into  slumber.  Blow  out  the  oil-lamp. 
Only  let  the  starlight  stream  in.     Hush,  he  slumbers. 

Madhav  [addressing  Gaffer].  What  are  you  stand- 
ing there  for  like  a  statue,  folding  your  palms.?  —  I 
am  nervous.  —  Say,  are  they  good  omens  .?  Why  are 
they  darkening  the  room  .?     How  will  starlight  help  ? 

Gaffer.     Silence,  unbeliever. 

[SuDHA   enters.] 

SuDHA.     Amal ! 

Physician.     He's  asleep. 

SuDHA.  I  have  some  flowers  for  him.  Mayn't  I 
give  them  into  his  own  hands  .'' 

Physician.     Yes,  you  may. 

SuDHA.     When  will  he  be  awake  ? 


138     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Physician.     Directly  the  King  comes  and  calls  him. 
SuDHA.     Will   you   whisper    a   word    for   me   in   his 
ear .'' 

Physician.     What  shall  I  say  ? 

SuDHA.     Tell  him  Sudha  has  not  forgotten  him. 

CURTAIN 


SIX  WHO   PASS  WHILE  THE 
LENTILS    BOIL^ 

BY 

STUART  WALKER 


^  Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  "  Portmanteau  Plays  "  by 
Stuart  Walker,  published  by  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati. 
Professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  strictly  reserved  by  the  author. 


Probably  the  most  popular  play  of  Stuart  Walker, 
the  inventor  and  director  of  the  Portmanteau  Theater, 
is  "Six  Who  Pass."  It  is  a  fanciful  bit  of  action  carried 
out  by  six  persons  who  pass  a  pot  of  boiling  lentils. 
They  are  on  their  way  to  the  execution  of  a  Queen  who 
is  condemned  to  die  before  the  clock  strikes  twelve. 
Her  crime  is  having  stepped  upon  the  ring-toe  of  the 
King's  great  aunt. 

If  the  reader  wishes,  he  may  read  symbolism  into 
the  action,  but  the  content,  the  vigor,  and  the  grace 
are  sufficient  for  the  reader  apart  from  any  such  addi- 
tion. 

"  Trimplet,"  "  Nevertheless  "  and  "  Medicine  Show  " 
are  three  other  one-act  plays  by  this  author,  which  with 
"  Six  Who  Pass  "  comprise  an  evening's  performance. 


SIX    WHO    PASS    WHILE 
THE    LENTILS    BOIL 

Characters 

The  Boy 

The  Queen  ^ 

The  Mime 

The  Milkmaid 

The  Blindman 

The  Ballad-Singer 

The  Dreadful  Headsman 

You  [in  the  audience]. 

The  Scene  is  a  kitchen. 
The  Period  is  when  you  will. 

[Before  the  opening  of  the  curtains  the  Prologue  enters 
upon  the  fore-stage  and  sum^nons  the  Device-Be  ARERf 
who  carries  a  large  copper  pot.] 

Prologue.  This  is  a  copper  pot.  [The  Device- 
Bearer  shows  it  to  the  audience  carefully.]  It  is  filled 
with  boiling  water.  [The  Device-Bearer  makes  the 
sound  of  bubblifig  water.]  It  is  on  the  fire.  See  the 
flames.  [The  Device-Bearer  sets  the  pot  in  the  ceyiter 
of  the  fore-stage  and  hlozvs  under  it  with  a  pair  of  bellows.] 
And  see  the  water  boiling  over.  [TA^  Device-Bearer 
again  makes  the  sound  of  bubbling  zvater  and  then  with- 
draws to  where  he  can  see  the  play  from  the  side  of  the 

141 


142  -SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

fore-stage.]  We  are  looking  into  the  kitchen  of  the  Boy 
whose  mother  left  him  alone.  I  do  not  know  where 
she  has  gone  but  I  do  know  that  he  is  gathering  lentils 
now. 

You.     What  are  lentils  ? 

Prologue.  A  lentil  ?  Why  a  lentil,  don't  you  see, 
is  not  a  bean,  nor  yet  a  pea;  but  it  is  kin  to  both  .  .  . 
You  must  imagine  that  the  Boy  has  built  the  fire  and 
set  the  water  boiling.  He  is  very  industrious  but  you 
need  not  feel  sorry  for  him.  His  mother  is  very  good 
to  him  and  he  is  safe.  Are  you  ready  now  .''...  Very 
well.  Be  quiet.  [The  Prologue  claps  his  hands  twice. 
The  curtains  open  and  a  kitchen  is  disclosed.  There  are 
a  bench,  a  stool  and  a  cupboard.  A  great  door  at  the  back 
opens  into  a  corridor.  There  are  also  two  windows  — 
one  higher  than  the  other,  looking  upon  the  corridor.  At 
the  right  a  door  opens  into  the  bedroom  of  the  Boy's  mother. 
A  great  pewter  spoon  lies  upon  the  shelf  in  the  clipboard.  A 
large  Butterfly  comes  in  through  the  doorway, flits  about, 
and  looks  off  stage.  The  song  of  the  Boy  is  heard  from 
the  garden.  The  Butterfly  goes  to  the  door,  poises  a 
moment,  then  alights  on  the  cupboard.  The  Boy  enters 
with  a  great  bozd  filled  with  lentils.  The  Butterfly/iVj- 
to  the  bozvl  and  satisfied  returns  to  the  cupboard.  The 
Boy  smiles  at  the  Butterfly  but  he  does  not  touch  him. 
Then  he  empties  the  lentils  into  the  pot  and  water  splashes 
on  his  careless  hand.  A  moan  is  heard  in  the  distance. 
The  Boy  and  the  Butterfly  go  to  the  door.  The  Queen's 
voice  is  heard  calling] 

Butterfly,  butterfly,  where  shall  I  hide  ? 

[Enter  the  Queen.] 

Queen.     Boy,  Boy  —  oh,  I  am  distraught ! 

You.     What  is  distraught .? 


SIX   WHO  PASS   WHILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 43 

Prologue.  Distraught  means  distracted,  perplexed, 
beset  with  doubt,  worried  by  some  fear. 

Boy  [pityingly].     Why  are  you  distraught .? 

Queen.  Oh  —  Oh — Oh — They  are  going  to  be- 
head me  ! 

Boy.     When .? 

Queen.     Before  mid-day. 

Boy.  Why  are  they  going  to  behead  you  ?  Is  it 
a   story .''     Tell   it   to   me. 

Queen.     I  was  guilty  of  a  breach  of  etiquette. 

Boy.     What  is  that } 

Queen.  I  did  something  that  was  considered  bad 
manners  and  the  law  says  the  punishment  is  decapita- 
tion. 

You.     What  is  decapitation  ? 

Prologue.  Decapitation  is  beheading;  cutting  off 
one's  head. 

Boy.    Why,  only  kings  and  queens  can  be  decapitated. 

Queen.     Oh,  I  know  —  I  know  — 

Boy  [disappointed].     Are  you  a  queen  ? 

Queen.     Yes. 

Boy.  I  thought  all  queens  were  big.  My  mother 
says  they  are  always  regal.     And  my  mother  knows. 

Queen.  Oh,  I  am  the  Queen.  I  am  the  Queen; 
but  I  am  so  unhappy. 

Boy.  My  mother  told  me  kings  and  queens  knew 
no  fear.     Why,  you're  afraid. 

Queen.  Oh,  Boy,  Boy,  I  am  your  Queen  and  I  am 
afraid  and  unhappy.  And  queens  are  just  like  other 
people  when  they  are  afraid  and  unhappy. 

Boy  [disappointed].     Aren't  they  always  regal } 

Queen.  No  —  no.  Oh,  little  Boy,  hide  me,  hide 
me  from  the  Dreadful   Headsman! 


144     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Boy.  I  haven't  any  place  to  hide  you.  You  couldn't 
get  under  the  bench  and  you  couldn't  get  into  the  cup- 
board. 

Queen.  Little  Boy,  can't  you  see  that  I  shall  lose 
my  head  if  I  am  found  } 

Boy.  You  might  have  hidden  in  the  pot  if  I  hadn't 
put  it  on  the  fire. 

Queen.     Oh  — Oh  — Oh  — 

Boy.     I'm  sorry. 

Queen.     I  am  distraught. 

Boy.  Well,  I'll  hide  you,  because  you  are  distraught ; 
but  —  I  am  not  sure  you  are  a  queen.  .  .  .  Where's 
your  crown  ?     You  can't  be  a  queen  without  a  crown  ! 

[She  reaches  up  to  her  head.] 

Queen.  Oh,  I  was  running  so  fast  that  it  must  have 
slipped  from  my  head.  [Sees  the  Butterfly.]  Butter- 
fly, tell  him  I  am  your  Queen.  [The  Butterfly  /iVj 
to  her  head  and  lights  on  her  disheveled  locks  like  a 
diadem.] 

Boy.  Oh,  I  have  talked  to  the  Queen  !  .  .  .  You 
can  hide  in  my  mother's  bedroom  in  there;  but  first 
please  tell  me  a  story. 

Queen.  They  will  find  me  here.  I'll  tell  you  a 
story  afterward. 

Boy.     I  want  you  to  tell  me  now. 

Queen.  Well,  you  watch  at  the  door  and  warn  mc 
when  you  see  some  one  coming.  [The  Butterfly  brushes 
her  ear.]     But  stay,  the  Butterfly  says  he'll  watch. 

[The  Butterfly  goes  to  the  door.] 

Boy.     Will  he  know  ? 

Queen.  Oh,  yes.  He  is  a  wonderful  Butterfly  — 
wise  beyond  his  years. 

Boy.     Sit  down  and  tell  me  your  story.     [He  places  a 


SIX  WHO  PASS   WHILE   THE  LENTILS  BOIL     145 

black  pillow  for  the  Queen  ou  the  step  and  an  orange  pil- 
low for  himself.] 

Queen.  Last  night  we  celebrated  the  second  year 
of  peace  with  the  neighboring  kingdom.  We  were 
dancing  the  minuet  just  after  the  banquet,  when  I 
stepped  on  the  ring-toe  of  my  husband  the  King's  great- 
aunt. 

Boy.     Didn't  you  say  excuse  me  ? 

Queen.  It  was  useless.  The  law  says  that  if  a 
Queen  steps  on  the  ring-toe  of  the  King's  great-aunt 
or  any  member  of  her  family  the  Queen  must  be  be- 
headed while  the  King's  four  clocks  are  striking  twelve 

at  mid-day. 

Boy.     Oh,  that  means  to-day  ? 

Queen.     Yes. 

Boy.  Why,  it's  almost  mid-day  now.  See,  I've  just 
set  the  lentils  boiling. 

Queen.  If  you  can  hide  me  until  after  the  King's 
four  clocks  strike  twelve  I   shall  be  safe. 

Boy.     Why  are  there  four  clocks  ? 

Queen.  Because  the  law  allows  only  one  clock  for 
each   tower  in   the   castle. 

Boy.  Then  I  hear  all  the  King's  clocks  every  day  ! 
There's  a  big  clock,  and  two  clocks  not  so  big,  and  a 
tiny  .little  clock. 

Queen.     Yes,  those  are  the  four. 

Boy.  Why  will  you  be  safe  after  the  four  clocks 
strike  twelve  ? 

Queen.     Because  that  is  the  law. 

Boy.     Aren't  laws  funny  .? 

Queen.     Funny  ?     This   one   is   very   sad,   I   think. 

Boy.     Mightn't  it  be  twelve  any  mid-day  ? 

Queen.     No;     the   Prime   Minister   of  my   grand- 

L 


146     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

father  who  passed  the  law  decided  that  it  meant  only 
the  following  mid-day. 

Boy  [rising  and  rushing  to  the  door].  They'll  find 
you  here. 

Queen  [rising  calmly].  Oh,  no,  this  is  the  short  cut 
to  the  beheading  block.     Through  that  corridor. 

Boy.     Why  didn't  you  run  the  other  way  ? 

Queen.  Because  they  always  search  for  escaped 
people  in  that  direction.  So  I  ran  through  your  garden 
and  into  this  room.  They'll  never  search  for  me  so 
close  to  the  castle. 

Boy.     How  did  you  escape  ^ 

Queen.     I  — 

[The  Butterfly  seems  agitated.] 

Boy.     You  — 

Queen.     Some  one  is  coming.     Hide  me! 

Boy.     In  here  —  in  my  mother's  room.     'Sh  !  'sh  ! 

[The  Queen  goes  out.  Enter  the  Mime.  He  pokes 
hii  head  in  the  lower  window  and  peeps  around  the  door. 
The   Boy  turns}\ 

Boy  [weakly].     Are  you  the  Dreadful  Headsman  ? 

Mime.     What? 

Boy.     Are  you   the   Dreadful    Headsman  \ 

Mime.     Do   I  look  like  a  headsman  ? 

Boy.     I   don't  know;  I've  never  seen  one. 

Mime.     Well,  suppose  I  am. 

Boy.     Are  you  \ 

Mime.     Maybe  I  am. 

Boy.     Oh!  " 

Mime.     Booh ! 

Boy.     I'm  —  I'm  —  not  afraid. 

Mime.     Bah! 

Boy.     And  my  niother  isn't  here. 


SIX  WHO  PJSS   WHILE   THE  LENTILS  BOIL     147 

Mime.     Br-r-r-r! 

[The  Boy  reaches  for  his  knife.] 

Mime.     Bing ! 

Boy.     I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  you ! 

Mime.     'Sh  !  .  .  .     'Sh  !  .  .  .     'Sh  !  .  .  . 

Boy.     I'll  give  you  my  knife  if  you'll  go  'way. 

Mime.     Ah, —  ha! 

Boy.     It's  nearly  mid-day  and  you'd  better  go. 

Mime.     Well,  give  me  the  knife. 

Boy.     Promise  me  to  go. 

Mime  [laughs,  turning  away].  Aren't  you  going  to 
the  beheading  ? 

Boy.  No.  I  have  to  boil  the  lentils  for  our  mid- 
day meal. 

Mime.     May  I  come  back  and  eat  some.'' 

Boy.     You'll  have  to  ask  my  mother. 

Mime.     Where  is  she  ? 

Boy.  She's  over  that  way.  She  went  to  the  market 
to  buy  a  bobbin. 

You.     What  is  a  bobbin  .? 

Prologue.  A  bobbin  is  a  spool  upon  which  thread 
is  wound,  and  it  is  sharp  at  one  end  so  that  it  can  be 
easily  passed  backw^ard  and  forward,  to  and  fro,  through 
the  other  threads  in  making  lace. 

Mime  [starting  off].  Well,  I'll  be  back  to  eat  some 
lentils. 

Boy  [too  eagerly].     You'd  better  hurry. 

Mime.     You  seem  to  want  to  get  rid  of  me. 

Boy  [allaying  suspicion].  Well,  I  think  you'd  better 
go  or  you'll  be  late  —  and  it's  very  wrong  to  be  late. 

Mime  [going  toward  the  door].  I  think  I'll  [changing 
his  miiid]  sit  down. 

Boy  [disappointed].     Oh  ! 


148     SHORT  PL.JYS    BY   REPRESESTITI FE   .lUTIIORS 

Mime.  What  would  you  say  if  I  wasn't  the  Heads- 
man ? 

Boy.     But  you  said  you  were. 

Mime.     I  said  maybe  I  was. 

Boy.     Aren't  you  ? 

Mime.     Maybe  I'm  not. 

Boy.     Honest  ? 

Mime.     Um,  hum. 

Boy  [relieved].     Oh  !  .   .   . 

Mime.     You  zvere  afraid. 

Boy.     No  ...   I  wasn't. 

Mime.     Would  you  fiphr  ? 

Boy.     You  hc-r  I  would. 

Mime.     It  wouldn't  take  mc  a  minute  to  lick  you.    I 

Boy.  Maybe  it  wouldn't,  but  I  wouldn't  give  up 
right  away.  That  wouKl  be  cowardly  .  .  .  Who  are 
you  ? 

Mime.     I'm  a  mime  — 

Boy.      What's  a  mime  .? 

Mime.     A  mime's  a  mime. 

Boy.     Go  on  and  tell  me. 

Mime.     A  mime's  a  mountebank. 

Boy.     What's  a  mountebank  .'' 

Mime.     A  mountebank's  a  strolling  player. 

Boy.     Are  you  going  to  perform  for  me  } 

Mime.  Not  to-day  —  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  decapi- 
tation. 

Boy.      Do  you  want  to  see  the  decapitation  } 

Mime.  Well,  yes.  But  most  of  all  I  want  to  pick 
up  a   few  coins. 

Boy.     How  ? 

Mime.  Why,  I'll  perform  after  the  Queen  has  lost 
her  head. 


SIX   WHO   PASS   JVHILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     I49 

Boy.     Won't  you  be  too  sorry  ? 

Mime.  No.  You  see,  I'll  be  thinking  mostly  about 
what  I'm  going  to  do.  I  have  to  do  my  best  because  it  is 
hard  to  be  more  interesting  than  a  decapitation.  And 
after  it's  all  over  the  crowd  will  begin  to  talk  and  move 
about ;  and'  I'll  have  to  rush  up  to  the  front  of  them 
and  cry  out  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  "Stop  —  Ho,  for 
Jack  the  Juggler!  Would  you  miss  him  ?  In  London 
where  the  king  of  kings  lives,  all  the  knights  and  ladies 
of  the  Court  would  leave  a  crowning  to  watch  Jack  the 
Juggler  toss  three  golden  balls  with  one  hand  or  balance 
a  weathervane  upon  his  nose."  Then  a  silence  will 
come  upon  the  crowd  and  they  will  all  turn  to  me. 
Some  one  will  say,  "Where  is  this  Jack  the  Juggler.?" 
And  I  shall  answer,  "Jack  the  Jugglar,  the  greatest  of 
the  great,  the  pet  of  kings,  entertainer  to  the  Pope, 
and  the  joy  of  Cathay  stands  before  you."  And  I'll 
throw  back  my  cloak  and  stand  revealed.  So !  Some  one 
will  then  shout,  "Let  us  have  it,  Jack."  So  I'll  draw 
my  three  golden  balls  from  my  pouch  —  like  this  — - 
and  then  begin.  [The  Boy  is  zuatching  breathlessly  and 
the  Butterfly  is  interested  too.  Their  disappointment 
is  keen  zvhen  Jack  does  nothing.] 

Boy.     Aren't  you  going  to  show  me  ? 

Mime.     No,  I  must  be  off. 

Boy.     Aren't  you  ever  coming  back  ? 

Mime.     Maybe,  yes;  perhaps,  no. 

Boy.  I'll  give  you  some  lentils  if  you'll  juggle  the 
balls  for  me. 

Mime  [sniffs  the  pot].     They  aren't  cooked  yet. 

Boy.     Let  me  hold  your  golden  balls. 

Mime  [takes  a  gold  ball  from  his  pouch  and  lets  the 
Boy  hold  it].     Here's  one. 


I50     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Boy.     And  do  they  pay  you  well  ? 

Mime  {taking  the  hall  from  the  Boy].  Ay,  that  they 
do.  If  I  am  as  interesting  as  the  beheading  I'll  get 
perhaps  fifteen  farthings  in  money  and  other  things  that 
I  can  exchange  for  food  and  raiment. 

Boy.  I'm  going  to  be  a  mime  and  buy  a  castle  and 
a  sword. 

Mime.  Maybe  so  and  maybe  not.  Who  knows?  .  .  . 
Good-bye.     [He  goes  oiit.\ 

Boy  [to  the  Butterfly].  If  he  had  been  the  Dread- 
ful Headsman  I  would  have  slain  him.  So  !  .  .  ."Ah, 
wicked  headsman,  you  shall  not  behead  the  Queen  !  .  .  . 
Cross  not  that  threshold  or  I'll  run  you  through." 
[Throughout  this  the  Butterfly  shozvs  great  interest  and 
enters  into  the  spirit  of  it,  being  absorbed  at  times  and 
frightened  at  others.] 

[Enter  the  Milkmaid  at  door.\ 

Milkmaid.     Pst !  .  .  .  Pst ! 

Boy  [startled].     Oh  ! 

Milkmaid.     Are  you  going  to  the  decapitation  ? 

Boy.     No.     Are  you  ^ 

Milkmaid.     That  I  am. 

Boy.     Will  your  mother  let  you  go  ? 

Milkmaid.     She  doesn't  know. 

Boy.     Did  you  run  away  } 

Milkmaid.     No.     I  went  out  to  milk  the  cow. 

Boy.     And  did  you  do  it  ? 

Milkmaid.     Yes. 

Boy.     Why  didn't  you  wait  until  you  came  back  ? 

Milkmaid.  My  mother  was  looking  and  I  had  to 
let  her  see  me  doing  something. 

Boy.  How  did  you  get  away  when  you  took  the 
milk  pails  into  the  house  ^ 


SIX   JVIIO  PASS   WHILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     151 

Milkmaid.  I  didn't  take  them  in.  As  soon  as  my 
mother  turned  her  back  I  hid  the  pails  and  I  ran  through 
here  to  take  a  short  cut. 

Boy.     Where  did  you  hide  the  milk .? 

Milkmaid.     In  the  hollow  tree. 

Boy.     Won't  it  sour  .? 

Milkmaid.     Maybe. 

Boy.     Won't  your  mother  scold  you  ? 

Milkmaid.  Yes,  of  course,  but  I  couldn't  miss  the 
beheading. 

Boy.     Will  you  take  the  sour  milk  home  ? 

Milkmaid.  Yes,  and  after  my  mother  scolds  me  I'll 
make  it  into  nice  cheese  and  sell  it  to  the  Kind's  Cook 
and  then  mother  will  forgive  me. 

Boy  [sniffing  the  pot].  You'd  better  hurry.  It's 
nearly  mid-day.      Don't  you  smell   the  lentils.? 

Milkmaid.     The  headsman  hasn't  started  yet. 

Boy  [giggling].     He'd  better  hurry. 

Milkmaid.     They  can't  find  the  Queen. 

Boy  [so  innocently].     Did  she  escape  .? 

Milkmaid.     Yes. 

Boy.     Are  they  hunting  for  her  ? 

Milkmaid.  Yes,  and  they've  offered  a  big  reward  to 
the  person  who  finds  her. 

Boy.     How  much  ? 

Milkmaid.     A  pail  of  gold  and  a  pair  of  finger  rings. 

Boy.  That's  a  good  deal  .  .  .  with  a  pail  of  gold  I 
could  buy  my  mother  a  velvet  dress  and  a  silken  ker- 
chief and  a  bonnet  made  of  cloth  of  gold  —  and  I  could 
buy  myself  a  milk-white  palfrey. 

Milkmaid.     And  you'd  never  have  to  work  again. 

Boy.  But  she's  such  a  gentle  Queen.  Where  are 
they  hunting  her  .? 


152     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Milkmaid.     Everywhere. 

Boy.  Everywhere !  .  .  .  Maybe  she's  waiting  at 
the  beheading  block. 

Milkmaid.  Silly  goose !  She  wouldn't  try  to 
escape  this  way.     She'd  go  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Boy.     Do  people  always  run  in  the  opposite  direction .? 

Milkmaid.     Of  course,   everybody  knows  that. 

Boy.     I  wish  I  could  go. 

Milkmaid.     Come  on. 

Boy.     Um-uh.     The  lentils  might  burn. 

Milkmaid.     Pour  some  cold  water  on  them. 

Boy.  Um-uh.  I  promised  T  wouldn't  leave  the 
house. 

Milkmaid.     Oh,  it  will  be  wonderful! 

Boy.     The  Mime  will  be  there. 

Milkmaid.  The  one  with  the  long  cloak  and  the 
golden  balls  .'' 

Boy.     Um-uh. 

Milkmaid.     Ooh  ! 

Boy.     How  did  you  know  ? 

Milkmaid.  I  saw  him  on  the  way  to  the  market 
one  day  —  and  when  my  mother  wasn't  looking  at  me  I 
gave  him  a  farthing. 

Boy.     Is  he  a  good  juggler .? 

Milkmaid.  He's  magic  !  Why,  he  can  throw  three 
golden  balls  in  the  air  and  catch  them  with  one  hand 
and  then  keep  them  floating  in  the  air  in  a  circle. 

Boy.  And  can  he  balance  a  weathervane  on  his 
nose  while  it's  turning  ? 

Milkmaid.  Yes,  and  he  can  balance  an  egg  on  the 
end  of  a  long  stick  that  is  balanced  on  his  chin  ! 

Boy.  Oh  —  I  wish  I  could  see  him.  [Looks  at  the 
■pot  to  see  if  the  lentils  are  done.] 


SIX   WHO   PASS   WHILE   THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 53 

Milkmaid.     Come  on  ! 

Boy.  Well  —  [Begi7is  to  weaken  and  just  as  he  is 
about  to  start,  the  Butterfly  flits  past  him  into  the 
Queen's  room.] 

Milkmaid.     Oh  —  what  a  lovely  Butterfly  ! 

Boy.  No  —  no  —  I  can't  go.  But  you  had  better 
hurry. 

Milkmaid.     Well,   I'll    try   to    catch    the   Butterfly 

first. 

Boy.     Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  touch  that  Butterfly. 

Milkmaid.     Why  ? 

Boy.     Because  —  because  he's  my  friend. 

Milkmaid.     Silly ! 

Boy.  He  is  a  good  friend  and  he's  the  wisest  Butter- 
fly in  the  world. 

Milkmaid.     What  can  he  do  ? 

Boy.     He  can  almost  talk. 

Milkmaid.  Almost .?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know.  I'm  a 
goose.  You  want  to  play  a  trick  on  me  so  I'll  miss  the 
beheading. 

Boy.     You'd  better  hurry. 

Milkmaid.     I  wish  you'd  come. 

Boy  [sadly].     I  can't.  .  .   .     I've  a  duty  to  perform. 

Milkmaid.  Aren't  duties  always  hard  .?  [Both  sigh.] 
[She  takes  up  her  milk  pail.] 

Boy.     What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  pail  .f* 

Milkmaid.  I'm  going  to  stand  on  it.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye.    [She  goes  out.] 

Boy.  Good-bye.  [He  watches  for  a  moment,  then 
goes  to  the  pot  and  tries  the  lentils;  then  whispers  through 
door  to  the  Queen.]     The  lentils  are  getting  soft. 

[There  is  a  fumbling  in  the  passage  and  a  voice  is  heard. 
Help  the  blind.     Help  the  blind.      The  Butterfly  re- 


154     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

turns  to  the  top  of  the  cupboard.  The  Blindman  appears 
at  the  door.] 

Prologue.  He's  blind,  but  he'll  show  you  how  the 
blind  can  see. 

Blindman   [sniffi-ng\.     Cooking  lentils  ? 

Boy.     Yes. 

Blindman.     Cook,  which  way  to  the  beheading  ? 

Boy.  Keep  straight  ahead  —  the  way  you  are  going, 
old  man. 

Blindman.     Don't  you  want  to  take  me  with  you  .? 

Boy.     I'm  not  going. 

Blindman.     Not  going  to  the  beheading .? 

Boy.     No,  I  have  to  cook  the  lentils. 

Blindman.  Come  on  and  go  with  me  and  maybe 
I'll  give  you   a  farthing. 

Boy.     I  can't. 

Blindman.     Yes,  you  can.     Who  else  is  here } 

Boy  [szvallozving ;  it^s  hard  to  fib].     No  one. 

Blindman.  Can't  you  run  away  ?  Your  mother 
won't  know  you've  gone. 

Boy.     It's  my  duty  to  stay  here. 

Blindman.  It's  youi*  duty  to  help  a  poor  blindman, 
little  Boy. 

Boy.     Are  you   stone  blind  .? 

Blindman.     Yes. 

Boy.     Then  how  did  you  know  I  was  a  little  boy  ? 

Blindman.     Because  you  sound  like  a  little  boy. 

Boy.  Well,  if  you're  stone  blind  why  do  you  want 
to  go  to  the  beheading  ? 

Blindman.     I  can  see  with  my  ears. 

Boy.     Aw  — 

Blindman.     Didn't  I  know  you  were  a  little  boy  } 

Boy.  Yes,  but  you  had  to  guess  twice.  First  you 
thought  I  was  a  cook. 


SIX   WHO   PJSS   WHILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 55 

Blindman.     Well,  aren't  you  cooking  lentils  ? 

Boy.     Yes;  but  you  can  smell  them. 

Blindman.     Well,  I  see  with  my  nose,  too. 

Boy.     Aw  —  how  can  you  see  with  your  nose  .? 

Blindman.  If  you  give  me  some  bread  I'll  show 
you. 

Boy.  I  can't  .give  you  any  bread,  but  I'll  give  you 
some  raw  lentils. 

Blindman.     All  right.     Give  me  lentils. 

"Boy.  .  .  .     I'll    put   them    by   the   pot.     Ready. 

Blindman.  All  right.  [Sniffs.  Walks  to  the  pot 
and  gets  lentils  and  puts  them  in  an  old  pouch.]  Isn't 
that  seeing  with  my  nose  .? 

Boy.  H'm  !  [In  wonder.]  Now  see  with  your  ears 
and  I'll  give  you   some  more  lentils. 

Blindman.     All  right.     Speak. 

[The  Boy  gets  behind  the  stool  and  speaks.  The  Blind- 
man  goes  toward  him.      The  Boy  moves  around  stealthily.] 

Blindman.     You're  cheating.     You've  moved.      • 

Boy  [jumping  up  on  the  bench].     Well,  where  am  I  ? 

Blindman.     You're  standing  on  something. 

Boy.     How  did  you  guess  it  ? 

Blindman.     I  didn't  guess  it.     I  know  it. 

Boy.     Why  can't  I  do  that .? 

Blindman.  You  can  if  you  try ;  but  it  takes  prac- 
tice. 

Boy.     Can  you  see  the  door  now  ? 

Blindman.  No,  I've  turned  around  too  many  times. 
Besides  there  is  more  than  one  door. 

Boy.     Oh  —  m-m.   .   .   .     You    aren't    really    blind ! 

Blindman.  Blind  people  learn  to  use  what  they 
have.     Once  I  too  could  see  with  my  eyes. 

Boy.     Just  like  me  ? 


156     SHORT  PLAYS   BY   REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Blindman.     Yes.     And  then  I  didn't  take  the  trouble 

to  see  with  my  ears  and  my  nose  and  my  fingers  — 

after  I  became  blind  I  had  to  learn.   .  .   .     Why,  I  can 

.tell  whether  a  man  who  passes  me  at  the  palace  gate 

is  a  poor  man  or  a  noble  or  a  merchant. 

Boy.     How  can  you  do  that  ? 

Blindman.     By  the  sound  of  the  step. 

Boy.     Aw  —  how  can  you  do  that  ? 

Blindman.     Shut  your  eyes  and  try  it. 

Boy.     Well,  I  know  what  you  are.     That  would  be 

easy. 

Blindman.  I'll  pretend  I'm  somebody  else.  [Feels 
with  his  stick;  touches  bench.     Feels  around  again.] 

Boy.     Why  are  you  doing  that  ? 

Blindman.  To  see  how  far  I  can  walk  without  bump- 
ing into  something. 

Boy.     Um  — 

Blindman.     Ready. 

Boy  [hides  j ace  in  hafids].     Yes. 

Blindman.     Don't  peep.     [The  Boy  tries  hard  not  to.] 

Boy.     I  won't. 

Blindman.  All  ready.  [Shuffles  like  a  commoner.] 
Who  was  it  ? 

Boy.     a  poor  man. 

Blindman.     See  how  easy  ? 

Boy.  I  could  see  him  as  plain  as  if  I  had  my  eyes 
open.   .   .  .     Now   try   me   again. 

Blindman.     Ready. 

Boy.  All  right.  [The  Blindman  seems  to  groiv  in 
height.  His  face  is  filled  zvith  a  rare  brightness.  He 
steadies  himself  a  moment  and  then  walks  magnificently 
down  the  room.] 

Boy  [in  beautiful  wonder].     A  noble  !     I  could  see  him. 


SIX   WHO  PASS   IIIIILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 57 

Blindman.     All  you  have  to  do  is  try. 

Boy.     I  always  thought  it  was  terrible  to  be  blind. 

Blindman.     Sometimes  it  is. 

Boy.     But  I  thought  everything  was  black. 

Blindman.  It  used  to  be  until  I  taught  myself  how 
to  see. 

Boy.     Why  is  it  terrible  sometimes  ? 

Blindman.  Because  I  cannot  help  the  poor  who 
need  help.  If  I  had  money  I  could  feed  the  hungry  and 
clothe  the  poor  little  beggar  children  in  winter ! 

Boy.  Would  a  pail  of  gold  and  a  pair  of  finger  rings 
help  you  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor  little 
beggar  children  in  winter  ? 

Blirdman.  a  pail  of  gold  !  I  have  dreamed  of 
what  I  might  do  with  so  much  wealth  ! 

Boy.     I  can  get  a  pail  of  gold  if  I  break  a  promise. 

Blindman.     Would  you  break  a  promise? 

Boy.  ...  No  — but—     No! 

Blindman.     Of  course  you  wouldn't. 

Boy.  I  couldn't  break  a  promise  for  two  pails  of 
gold. 

Blindman.     Nor  twenty-two,  little  Boy. 

Boy.  When  you  walked  like  a  noble  I  saw  a  beauti- 
ful man  behind  my  eyes  with  a  crown  of  gold. 

Blindman.  If  you  broke  a  promise  for  a  pail  of  gold 
and  two  finger  rings  you  would  never  see  a  beautiful 
noble  with    a  crown    of  gold  when    you    closed    your 

eyes.  ... 

Boy.     Can  blindmen  see  beautiful  things  even  when 

it's  rainy  ? 

Blindman.  Blindmen  can  always  see  beautiful 
things  if  they  try.  Clouds  and  rain  are  beautiful  to  me 
—  and  when  I  get  wet  I  think  of  the  sunshine.     I  saw 


158     SHORT  PLJYS   BY  REPRESENTATIFE   AUTHORS 

sunshine  with  ni\-  eyes  when  I  was  a  httle  boy.  Now 
I  see  it  with  my  whole  body  when  it  warms  me.  I  saw 
rain  with  my  eyes  when  I  was  a  Httle  boy.  Now  I  see 
it  with  my  hands  when  it  falls  on  them  —  drop  —  drop 
—  drop  —  dropity  —  dropity  —  and  I  love  it  because 
it   makes   the  lentils   grow. 

Boy.  I  never  thought  of  that.  Rain  makes  me 
stay  in  doors  and  I  never  like  it  except  in  June. 

Blindman.     You  don't  have  to  stay  in  for  long. 

Boy.  Can  blindmen  see  beautiful  things  in  a  be- 
heading .'* 

Blindman.  No.  But  I  must  be  there  with  the 
crowd.  I  shall  tell  stories  to  the  people  and  perhaps 
they  will  give  me  food  or  money. 

Boy.     Can't  you  stay  and  tell  me  stories  ? 

Blindman.  No.  I  must  be  on  my  way.  ...  If  I 
do  not  see  the  beheading  I  cannot  tell  about  it  when  I 
meet  some  one  who  was  not  there.  Oh,  I  shall  make  a 
thrilling  tale  of  it. 

Boy.     Tell  it  to  me  when  you  come  back. 

Blindman.     If  you  give  me  some  cooked  lentils. 

Boy.     I'll  save  you  some. 

Blindman.     Are  the  lentils  nearly  done  ? 

Boy.     Half. 

Blindman.  I  must  be  on  my  way  then.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye.    {Starting  to  go  in  the  zvrong  direction.] 

Boy.     Here's  the  door. 

Blindman.  Thank  you,  little  boy.  .  .  .  Don't  for- 
get to  see  with  your  ears  and  nose  and  fingers.  [The 
Blindman  goes  out.] 

Boy.     I  won't. 

Blindman.     Good-bye. 

Boy.     Good-bye.     [The  Boy  covers  his  eyes  and  tries 


SIX  fT'HO  PJSS  WHILE   THE  LENTILS  BOIL     159 

to  see  zcith  his  ears  and  his  nose.]     It's  easier  with  the 
ears. 

[Singing  is  heard.     Enter  the  Ballad-Singer.] 

Hello  ! 

Boy.     Hello ! 

Singer.     How  are  you  ? 

Boy.     I'm  very  well. 

Singer.     That's  good. 

Boy.     Thank  you. 

Singer.     Cooking  ? 

Boy.     Yes. 

Singer  [coming  into  the  roojn\.     Something  good  ? 

Boy.     Lentils. 

Singer.     Give  me  some  .' 

Boy.     They  aren't  done. 

Singer.     Nearly.     I  can  smell  them. 

Boy.     Do  you  like  them  .' 

Singer.     \Mien  I'm  hungry. 

Boy.     Are  you  hungrs*  now  .' 

Singer.     I'm  always  hungn,".     [They  laugh.] 

Boy.     Were  you  singing  : 

Singer.     Yes. 

Boy.     Do  you  like  to  smg  .' 

Singer,     ^^^^en  I  get  something  for  my  ballads. 

Boy.     Are  you  a  ballad-singer  ? 

Singer.     Yes. 

Boy.     Sing  one  for  me  ? 

Singer.     Give  me  some  lentils  .' 

Boy.     I'll  give  you  some  raw  lentils. 

Singer.     I  want  some  of  the  cooked  ones. 

Boy.     Thev  aren't  done. 

Singer.     Are  they  nearly  done  ^ 

Boy.     More  than  half. 


l6o     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Singer.     I  like  them  that  way. 

Boy.     All  right.     Sing  me  a  ballad. 

Singer.     Well,  give  me  the  lentils  first. 

Boy.     Oh,  no,  sing  the  ballad  first. 

Singer.     No,  sir,  give  me  the  lentils  first. 

Boy.     That  isn't  fair. 

Singer.  Why  not  ^.  After  I  sing  to  you  maybe  you 
won't  pay  me. 

Boy.     Yes,  I  will. 

Singer.     Then  why  not  pay  me  first  ? 

Boy.     You  might  not  sing. 

Singer    [laughing].     Yes,  I  will.    • 

Boy  [laughing].  Well,  I'll  give  you  some  lentils  at 
the  end  of  each  verse. 

Singer.     That's   a  bargain. 

Boy.     Sing. 

Singer  [sings  one  line].  Six  stalwart  sons  the  miller 
had  —  Give  me  the  lentils. 

Boy.     Finish    the   verse. 

Singer.     I  did  finish  it. 

Boy.     Now  that's  not  fair.     You  only  sang  a  line. 

Singer.     Well,  a  line's  a  verse. 

Boy  [zvith  a  gesture  that  indicates  hozv  long  a  verse  ought 
to  he].     I  meant  a  whole  verse. 

Singer  [mimicki^ig  the  gesture].  A  line's  a  whole 
verse. 

Boy.     Oh,  now,  be  fair,  I  mean  a  whole,  whole  verse. 

Singer.     You  mean  a  stanza. 

Boy.     I  always  heard  it  called  a  verse. 

Singer.  Well,  keep  the  bargain.  I  sang  a  verse. 
Give  me  some  lentils. 

Boy  [rising  and  taking  a  very  few  lentils  on  his  spoon]. 
Next  time  I  mean  a  stanza.  .  .  .     Here  are  some  lentils. 


SIX   JVIIO  PASS   nillLE    THE  LENTILS   BOIL     l6l 

[The  Ballad-Singer  eyes  the  meager  portion,  cools  it 
and  eats.] 

Singer.     Stingy. 

Boy.     Isn't  that  some  lentils  ? 

Singer  [laughs].     Well  — 

Boy.     Now  begin  again. 

Singer.  At  the  end  of  every  stanza  a  spoonful  of 
lentils. 

Boy.     I  didn't  say  a  spoonful. 

Singer  [starts  to  go].     Very  well,  I  won't  sing  a  ballad. 

Boy.  All  right.  I'll  give  you  a  spoonful  at  the  end 
of  each  —  stanza.  [He  sits  on  the  floor  by  the  pot  of 
lentils.] 

Singer  [sings]. 

The  Ballad  of  the  Miller  and  His  Six  Sons 

Six  stalwart  sons  the  miller  had 

All  brave  and  fair  to  see  — 

He  taught  them  each  a  worthy  trade  — 

And  they  grew  gallantly. 

Tar  a — d  a — d  a — d  a-d  a-d  a — d  a-d  a-d  a 

Tar  a — d  a — d  a — d  a-de — d  a-dee. 

Give  me  some  lentils. 

Boy.     Here.  .  .  .     Hurry  up. 

Singer  [sings]. 

The  first  was  John  of  the  dimpled  chin 

And  a  fist  of  iron  had  he  — 

He  learned  to  wield  the  broadsword  well 

And  turned  to  soldiery. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

Boy.     Please  !     Please  don't  stop. 
Singer.     Keep  to  the  bargain. 


l62     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Boy.     Here,  take  two  spoonfuls  and  finish  without 
stopping. 

Singer  [sings  rest  of  ballad]. 

The  second  son  was  christened  Hugh 

And  curly  locks  had  he  — 

He  learned  to  use  the  tabor  and  lute 

And  turned  to  minstrelsy. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

The  third  was  James  of  the  gentle  ways 

And  speech  of  gold  had  he  — 

He  learned  his  psalms  and  learned  his  creed 

And  turned  to  simony. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

The  fourth  was  Dick  of  the  hazel  eye, 

And  a  steady  hand  had  he  — 

With  a  hammer  and  saw  and  a  chest  of  tools 

He  turned  to  carpentry. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

The  fifth  was  Ned  of  the  velvet  tread 

And  feather  fingers  had  he. 

He  used  his  gifts  in  a  naughty  way 

And  turned  to  burglary. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

The  sixth  was  Robin,  surnamed  the  Rare, 

For  always  young  was  he  — 

He  learned  the  joy  of  this  sunny  world 

And  turned  to  poetry. 

Tara — da — da,  etc. 

The  miller  approached  three  score  and  ten 
A  happy  man  was  he 


SIX-  WHO  P.JSS   Ji'IIILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 63 

His  five  good  sons  and  the  one  who  was  bad, 
All  turned  to  gallantry. 
Tara — da — da,  etc. 

Boy.     Sing  me  another. 

Singer.     A  spoonful  at  the  end  of  every  stanza. 
Boy.     Don't  stop  after  you  begin. 
Singer.     Pay  me  in  advance. 

Boy.     I  suppose  I'll  have  to.     [He  feeds  the  Ballad- 
Singer.] 

Singer  [sings  second  ballad]. 

The  Ballad  of  the   Three  Little  Pigs 

Two  little  pigs  were  pink  —  pink  —  pink  — 
And  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black  — 
The  three  little  pigs  were  very  good  friends. 
But  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black. 

Three  little  pigs  would  play  —  play  —  play  — 
But  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black  — 
And  three  little  pigs  would  have  a  jolly  time, 
Though  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black. 

Three  little  pigs  soon  grew  —  grew  —  grew  — 
And  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black  — 
The  three  little  pigs  became  fat  hogs, 
And  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black. 

The  two  fat  hogs  were  pink  —  pink  —  pink  — 
And  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black  — 
The  three  fat  hogs  all  made  good  ham. 
Though  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black. 

Boy.     Sing  me  another. 
Singer.     I  can't.     I'm  tired. 


164     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIJ'E  AUTHORS 

Boy.     Are  you  going  to  sing  those  at  the  beheading  ? 

Singer.     What  beheading } 

Boy.     At  the  Queen's  beheading. 

Singer.     Where .? 

Boy.     Over  there. 

Singer.     When  ? 

Boy.     To-day. 

Singer.  I  must  be  going.  Certainly  I'll  sing  there 
and  I'll  take  up  a  collection. 

Boy.  It's  going  to  be  before  the  King's  four  clocks 
strike   twelve. 

Singer.  It's  nearly  time  now.  If  I  can  collect  a 
piece  of  gold  I  can  buy  a  vermilion  robe  and  sing  at 
the  King's  court. 

Boy.  I  could  collect  a  pail  of  gold  and  two  finger 
rings  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  King  if  I'd  break  a 
promise. 

Singer.     Perhaps  you  will. 

Boy.     Would  you .? 

Singer.  I'd  rather  sing  along  the  highway  all  my 
life.  It  is  better  to  dream  of  a  vermilion  robe  than  to 
have  one  that  is  not  honestly  got. 

Boy.     The  Blindman  said  something  like  that. 

Singer.     Who  said  what  ? 

Boy.  The  Bhndman  said  if  I  broke  a  promise  I'd 
never  again  see  a  beautiful  noble  with  a  golden  crown 
when  I  closed  my  eyes. 

Singer.     He  was   right. 

Boy.  When  you  get  your  vermilion  robe  will  you 
let  me  see  it } 

Singer.     That  I  will.     Good-bye. 

Boy.     Good-bye.     [Singer  goes  out.] 

[Boy  hums  a  snatch  of  the  ballads.     The  Headsman 


SIX   WHO  PASS   WHILE    THE   LENTILS   BOIL     1 65 

Steps  into  the  door  and  plants  his  axe  beside  him  jar  an 
impressive  picture.      The  Boy  turns  and  starts  in  terror.] 

Headsman.     Have  you  seen  the  Queen? 

Boy.     Sir .? 

Headsman.     Have  you  seen  the  Queen  1 

Boy.  How  should  I,  sir .?  I've  been  cooking  the 
lentils. 

Headsman.     She  is  here! 

Boy.     How  —  could  —  she  —  be  —  here,  sir  ? 

Headsman.     Well,  if  she  isn't  here,  where  is  she  ? 

Boy  [relieved].  I  don't  know  where  she  is  if  she  isn't 
here,  sir. 

Headsman.  She  has  too  much  sense  to  hide  so  near 
the  castle  and  on  the  short  cut  to  the  headsman's 
block.   .   .     Do  you  know  who  I  am  ? 

Boy.     I  think  so  —  sir. 

Headsman.     Think.?     Don't  you  i^now.? 

Boy.     Yes,  sir. 

Headsman.     Who  am  I,  then  ? 

Boy.     You're  the  Dreadful  Headsman. 

Headsman.  I  am  the  winder  of  the  King's  four 
clocks,  and  when  I  am  needed  I  am  the  best  headsman 
in   three   kingdoms.     And   this   is   my   axe. 

Boy.     Is  it  sharp  ? 

Headsman.  It  will  split  a  hair  in  two.  [Runs  finger 
near  blade  meaningly.] 

Boy.     Oh ! 

Headsman.     A  hair  in  two  ! 

Boy.     Would  you  really  cut  off  the  Queen's  head  'i 

Headsman.  That's  my  business,  to  cut  off  heads; 
and  the  nobler  the  head  the  better  my  business. 

Boy.     She's  such  a  nice  Queen. 

Headsman.     Have  you  seen  her  .? 


l66     SHORT  PL.nS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Boy.     Y-es,  —  sir. 

Headsman.     When .? 

Boy.     One  day  —  when  I  was  boihng  some  lentils. 

He.\dsman.     Did  you  see  her  neck  .' 

Boy.     Yes,  sir. 

Headsman.     Not  much  bigger  than  a  hair. 

Boy  [desperately  friendly].     Have  you  seen  my  knife  .' 

Headsman  [sharply].  Vm  talking  about  the  Queen 
and  I'm  going  to  talk  about  myself  until  I  hear  the 
King's  trumpeter  calling  me  to  the  beheading. 

Boy.  Yes,  sir.  [Edging  betzceen  the  bench  and  door 
of  the  room  where  the  QuEEN   is  hidden.] 

Headsman.     Sit  down. 

Boy.     I'd  rather  stand,  sir. 

Headsman.  Sit  dozen!  And  I'll  tell  you  how  I'm 
going  to  behead  the  Queen. 

Boy.  You  can't  behead  her  after  the  King's  four 
clocks  have  struck  twelve. 

Headsman.     How  did  you  know  that  ? 

Boy  [realizing  his  blunder].     Well  — 

Headsman.  Nobody  knows  that  except  the  royal 
family   and   people  of  the  court. 

Boy.     a  little  —  bird  told  —  me. 

He.\dsman.  Where  is  the  little  bird  that  I  may  cut 
its  head  off.' 

Boy.  Don't  hurt  the  little  bird,  but  tell  me  how 
you  are  going  to  behead  the  Queen. 

Headsman.  Well  —  [At  the  stool.]  This  is  the 
block.  There's  the  Queen  behind  the  iron  gate.  We'll 
say  that  door  is  the  gate.  [The  Boy  starts.]  And  out 
there  is  the  crowd.  Now,  I  appear  like  this  and  walk 
up  the  steps.  The  crowd  cheers,  so  I  bow  and  show 
myself  and  my  axe.     Then  I  walk  over  to  the  gate  — 


SIX  WHO  PASS   WHILE    THE  LENTILS   BOIL     1 67 

Boy.  Don't  20  in  there.  That's  my  mother's 
room  and  you  might  frighten  her. 

Headsman.     Who's  in  3-our  mother's  room  ? 

Boy.     She  is. 

Headsman.  Well,  if  she's  in  there,  maybe  she'd 
Hke  to  hear  my  story. 

Boy.     She's   in    bed. 

Headsman.  Sick.'  [The  ^oy  nods  vigorously.]  All 
right.  .  .  .  Well,  I've  bowed  to  the  crowd  and  I  start 
for  the  Queen.  —  If  you  won't  open  the  door,  you  pre- 
tend you're  the  Queen. 

Boy.     I  don't  want  to  be  the  Queen. 

Headsman.  Come  on  and  pretend.  I  walk  up  to 
the  gate  —  so,  and  open  it  and  then  I  say  "Your  Maj- 
esty, I'm  going  to  cut  off  your  head"  and  she  bows  — 
bozv  —  [The  Boy  hazes.]  And  then  I  say  "Are  you 
ready?"  and  she  says,  "I  am  ready."  Then  I  blind- 
fold her  — 

Boy.     Xow,  don't  blindfold  me,  sir  ! 

Headsman.     I'm  showing  you  how  it's  done. 

Boy.  But  if  you  blindfold  me  I  can't  see  when  you 
do  it. 

He.adsman  [admitting  the  point].-  All  right.  .  .  . 
Then  I  blindfold  her  and  I  lead  her  to  the  block  and  I 
say,  "Have  you  made  your  peace  with  Heaven  r"  and 

e  says,       1  es.   .   .   . 

Boy.  If  you  won't  tell  me  any  more  I'll  give  you 
my  knife. 

He.M)SMAN.     Aren't  you  interested  .' 

Boy.  Yes,  but  your  axe  is  so  sharp  and  it  might 
slip. 

Headsman.  Sharp  '  It  will  cut  a  hair  in  two,  but 
I  know  how  to  handle  it.   .   .   .    Come  on.   .   .    [The  ViOY 


l68     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

reluctantly  jails  into  the  picture  again.]  And  then.  .  . 
[Raising  his  axe.]  And  then.  .  .  [Headsman  sees  the 
Butterfly.]  And  then.  .  .  How-d'ye-do,  Butter- 
fly ?  [The  Boy  runs  to  the  pot  unnoticed  hy  the  Heads- 
man.] 

Boy.  Lentils,  lentils,  boil  the  time  away.  That 
my  good  Queen  may  live  to-day.  [The  Headsman  and 
the  Butterfly  are  having  quite  a  game.  Suddenly  the 
great  clock  begins  to  strike  and  the  two  next  larger  follow 
slowly.  The  Headsman  rushes  to  the  hack  door  with  his 
axe.] 

Headsman.  Why  doesn't  the  trumpeter  blow  his 
call !  [The  Boy  counts  the  strokes  of  the  clock  and  as  the 
third  clock  strikes  twelve  he  rushes  to  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room.] 

Boy.     Queen !     Queen !     It's  mid-day. 

Headsman.  Queen  —  Queen  —  [He  strides  to  the 
bedroom  and  drags  the  Queen  out.]  The  little  clock 
hasn't  struck  yet !  [He  pulls  the  Queen  tozvard  the  rear 
door  and  shouts.]  Here!  Here!  don't  let  the  little 
clock  strike!  I've  won  the  pail  of  gold!  [The  Boy 
has  set  the  bench  in  the  doorway  so  that  the  Headsman 
stumbles.  The  Butterfly  keeps  flying  against  the 
Headsman's   nose,  which  makes  him  sneeze.] 

Boy.     No  one  heard  you ! 

Queen.     Let  me  go!     Let  me  go  I 

Headsman  [sneezing  as  only  a  headsman  can].  The 
Queen!  The  Queen!  [The  little  clock  begins  to  strike. 
The  Boy  counts  eagerly,  one,  two,  three,  etc.  Between 
strokes  the  Headsman  sneezes  and  shouts.]  The  Queen  ! 
The  Queen!  [At  the  fifth  stroke  the  Headsman  falls 
on  his  knees.  The  Queen  becomes  regal,  her  foot  on 
his  neck.      The  Boy  kneels  at  her  side.] 


SIX   WHO  PASS  WHILE   THE  LENTILS   ROIL     169 

Queen.  Base  villain  !  According  to  the  law  I  am 
saved  !  But  you  are  doomed.  As  winder  of  the  King's 
four  clocks  the  law  commands  that  you  be  decapitated 
because  the  four  clocks  did  not  strike  together.  Do 
you  know  that  law  ? 

Headsman.  Oh,  Lady,  I  do,  but  I  did  but  do  my 
duty.  I  was  sharpening  my  axe  this  morning  and  I 
couldn't   wind   the  clocks.     Intercede  for  me. 

Queen.     It  is  useless. 

Boy.     Is  there  any  other  headsman  .? 

Queen.  The  law  says  the  Chief  Headsman  must 
behead  the  chief  winder  of  the  King's  four  clocks. 

Boy.     Can  the  Dreadful  Headsman  behead  himself? 

Queen.     Aye,  there's  the  difficulty. 

Headsman.     Oh,  your  Majesty,  pardon  me  ! 

Boy.     Yes,   pardon  him. 

Queen.  On  one  condition  :  He  Is  to  give  his  axe 
to  the  museum  and  devote  all  his  old  age  to  the  care 
of  the  King's  four  clocks.  .  .  .  For  myself,  I  shall  pass 
a  law  requiring  the  ladies  of  the  court  to  wear  no  jewels. 
So,  if  the  King's  aunt  can  wear  no  rings,  she  assuredly 
cannot  have  a  ring-toe,  and  hereafter  I  may  step  where 
I  please.  .  .  .  Sir  Headsman,  lead  the  way.  .  .  .  And 
now,  my  little  Boy,  to  you  I  grant  every  Friday  after- 
noon an  hour's  sport  with  the  Mime,  a  spotted  cow  for 
the  little  Milkmaid,  a  cushion  and  a  canopy  at  the 
palace  gate  for  the  Blindman,  a  vermilion  cloak  for 
the  Ballad-Singer,  a  velvet  gown,  a  silken  kerchief  and 
a  cloth-of-gold  bonnet  for  your  mother,  and  for  your- 
self a  milk-white  palfrey,  two  pails  of  gold,  two  finger 
rings,  a  castle,  and  a  sword.  .  .  .  Arise,  Sir  Little  Boy. 
.  .  .     Your  arm. 

Boy.     May  I  take  my  knife,  your  Majesty  ? 


I70     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Queen.  That  you  may.  {He  gets  the  knife  and  re- 
turns to  her.  She  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm.]  Sir  Heads- 
man, announce  our  coming. 

Headsman.  Make  way  —  make  way  —  for  her 
Majesty  the  Queen. 

Queen   [correcting].     And  Sir  Little  Boy. 

Headsman.     What's  his  other  name,  your  Majesty  ? 

Boy  [whispering  with  the  wonder  of  it  all].     Davie. 

Queen  [to  the  Headsman].     Davie. 

Headsman.  Make  way  —  make  way  for  her  Maj- 
esty the  Queen  and  Sir  Davie  Little  Boy.  [They  go  out. 
Immediately  the  Boy  returns  and  gets  the  pot  of  lentils 
and  runs  after  the  Queen  as 

THE    CURTAINS    CLOSE 


THE   SILVER   LINING  ^ 

BY 

CONSTANCE   D'ARCY  MACKAY 


>  From  "The  Beau  of  Bath  and  Other  One-Act  Plays  "  by  Con- 
stance D'Arcy  Mackay.  Copyright,  191 5,  by  Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany. 

Reprinted  by  arrangement  with  the  publishers. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 
the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


This  delightfully  charming  little  portrait  of  the 
eighteenth  century  was  composed  to  be  acted,  as  are 
all  the  plays  of  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay.  Their 
attraction  lies  in  their  interesting  historical  exact- 
ness. 

1  he  author  is  a  recognized  authority  on  the  pro- 
duction of  plays  in  public  schools,  and  the  plays  bear 
witness  to  her  very  practical  instruction  and  enthusi- 
astic sympathy,  together  with  her  interest  in  all 
human  aspects  in  literature. 

This  little  play  inspires  the  reader  to  a  further  ac- 
quaintance with  the  writer's  biographical  plays  found 
in  "The  Beau  of  Bath."  Her  folk-plays  are  especially 
charming. 


THE    SILVER    LINING 

Characters 

Fanny  Burney 

Richard  Burney,  her  uncle 

Cephas,  an  old  servant 

Place  :   Chessington. 

Time:    1778. 

Scene  :  Library  in  Mr.  Crisp's  house. 
[A  pleasant  room,  a  trifle  littered  with  hooks  and  papers. 
All  across  the  background,  zvindozvs  curtained  in 
palely  flowered  damask.  A  hearth  at  left,  with  a 
fire  burning  rosily.  Brass  andirons.  A  bellows. 
Near  the  hearth,  facing  audience,  a  dark  wooden  settle 
with  a  high  back.  It  is  handsomely  carved  and  ap- 
pears to  be  quite  old.  Candles  in  silver  candle- 
sticks are  lighted  on  the  hearth  shelf,  and  there  are 
also  framed  silhouettes  standing  there. 
[At  right,  near  background,  a  door  opening  into  another 
room  of  the  house.  Also  at  left,  towards  foreground, 
a  round  table  with  a  lighted  candelabra,  several  draw- 
ings in  striking  black  and  white.  A  brass  ink- 
stand, sand,  quills,  pens,  etc.  All  along  the  right 
wall  a  dark  bookcase  full  to  running  over  with  books. 
Its  top  shelf  is  piled  high  with  them.  Their  covers 
are  mostly  brown  and  musty.  There  are  also  black, 
dark  blue  and  green  ones,  but  none  in  bright  colors. 

173 


174     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

[At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Fanny  Burney,  rather  small, 
delicate,  with  a  girlishly  pretty  face  and  softly  curl- 
ing unpowdered  hair  sits  writing  at  the  table,  a 
small  work-hag  and  sampler  lying  on  her  lap.  She 
wears  a  pale  yellow  dress,  flowered  in  white,  over  a 
pale  yellow  petticoat,  and  a  white  lace  fichu.  Black 
velvet  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  about  her  wrists. 
She  is  deep  in  her  work  when  there  is  the  sound  of 
some  one  opening  the  door  at  right.  With  amazing 
swiftness  Fanny  drops  her  pen,  sweeps  the  draw- 
ings over  zvhat  she  is  writing,  drops  her  sampler 
and  bag  on  top  of  them,  and  is  crocheting  when  her 
uncle,  Richard  Burney,  enters.  He  is  a  tall,  portly, 
ruddy  man,  with  a  most  important  manner.  He 
wears  a  handsome  plum-colored  traveling  suit,  and 
carries  a  long  churchzvarden  pipe  which  he  lights 
without  a  "by  your  leave"  at  his  first  opportunity.] 
Richard  Burney 
Well,  Fanny! 

Fanny  Burney 
[surprised] 
Uncle ! 
Richard  Burney 

Cephas  welcomed  me. 
There's  no  one  else  about  as  I  can  see. 

[Fanny  drops  a  fiurried  curtsey.] 
Where's  Mrs.  Gast .? 

Fanny  Burney 

In  bed.     And  Daddy  Crisp 
Has  gone  to  London. 

Richard  Burney 

Cephas,  with  his  lisp. 
Has  so  informed  me.     And  I  also  know 


THE  SILVER  LINING  1 75 

Your  father  left  here  just  three  days  ago, 
So  I  have  missed  him.     Lord  !     What  a  to-do  ! 
I'm  just  from  town  myself.     Child,  how  are  you  ? 
Fanny  Burney 
{prettily] 
Quite  well,  and  hope  my  kinsfolk  are  the  same. 
Richard  Burney 
[piifing  at  his  pipe  before  the  fire] 
Um.     Yes. 

Fanny  Burney 
What  new^s  ^. 

Richard  Burney 

The  whole  town  rings  with  fame 
Of  a  new^  author,  who  has  writ  a  book 
Called  "Evelina."     Everywhere  you  look 
You  see  it  advertised.     Yet  no  one  knows 
The  author's  name  and  rumor  madly  goes 
Naming  first  this  one,  and  then  that  one. 
Fanny  Burney 
[passionately] 

Oh, 
If  they  should  ever  guess  !     [She  grows  pale.] 
Richard  Burney 

They're  sure  to  know 
Sooner  or  later.      Burke  sat  up  all  night 
To  read  it.     Said  if  he  could  guess  aright 
The  author's  name,  that  fifty  pounds  he'd  give, 
While  Dr.  Johnson  cried  out :    "As  I  live 
I  can't  forget  the  book.     It's  my  delight !" 
Why,  Fanny !    How  you  look  !   First  red,  then  white. 
Fanny  Burney 
[trying  to  speak  without  a  tremor] 
You  see,  in  Chessington,  our  life  is  dull, 


176     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

And  everything  you  say  seems  wonderful, 
And  stirs  the  heart  Hke  bells  of  London  town. 
And  so  this  —  "Katherina"  wins  renown  ? 

Richard  Burney 
Nay,  "Evelina,"  so  the  novel's  named. 
The  author  who  has  written  it  is  famed 
Forever.     'Tis  a  puzzle.     No  one  can 
Be  positive  who  is  the  lucky  man. 
If,  when  I've  read  it  I  have  found  'twill  do 
For  you  to  read,  'twill  be  permitted  you. 
Fanny  Burney 
[demurely] 


Thank  you. 


Richard  Burney 
How's  Charles  ? 
Fanny  Burney 

My  father's  vastly  well, 


And  busy. 


Richard  Burney 
Humph.     I  think  that  I  could  tell 
That  without  asking.     Times  are  hard.     I  saw 
A  friend  of  Charles'  last  night  — young  Clapperclaw, 
Who  swears  that  Clark  wrote  "Evelina."      Fool! 
But  when  I  said  'twas  more  like  Fielding's  school 
Mrs.  Thrale  looked  at  me  the  oddest  way, 
Said  :   ''Did  you  get  the  note  I  sent  to-day? 
Go  search  for  'Evelina'  nearer  home. 
If  you  would  find  her  you've  not  far  to  roam," 
[Fanny  i«rnj  and  looks  at  him,  aghast;    but  he  con- 
tinues placidly.] 

I  think  she  means  that  Anstey's  written  it. 
But,  lord,  I'm  sure  that  he  has  not  the  wit  I 
Although  the  strangest  people  try  to  write : 


THE  SILVER  LINING  177 

Children  and  fools.     I've  not  forgot  the  night 
Your  father  found  yon  at  it,  clipped  your  wing, 
Forbade  such  nonsense  and  then  burned  the  thing, 
And  brought  you  to  your  senses.      Pen  and  ink 
Are  not  for  women,  but  for  men  who  think. 
Females  are  cackling  geese.     'Tis  only  men 
Who  have  the  strength  of  mind  to  wield  a  pen. 
Fanny  Burney 
[picking  up  pen  from  table] 
And  yet  this  pen  is  made  from  a  goose  feather ! 
Richard  Burney 
[jrozvning\ 
Well,  pens  and  women  do  not  go  together. 
A  bluestocking  is  a  disguise.     [Yaicns.]     Heigho  ! 
The  hour  grows  late.     I'll  take  my  candle. 
[He  crosses  to  table,  takes  candle,  and  pauses  to  pick  up 
drazvings  for  inspection.     As  he  lifts  one  it  catches 
on  the  manuscript  beneath,  atid  the  latter  sweeps  to 
the  floor,  and  falls  zvith  pages  outspread] 
Fanny  Burney 
\with  a  stifled  exclamation] 

.    Oh! 
Richard  Burney 
[puzzled;  then  angry] 
What's  this  ?    [Picks  up  a  fezv  pages]    Great  heavens! 

Fanny  !     Well,  I  swear 
You  have  been  writing !     And  you've  hid  it  there 
Behind  your  sampler.     Wait  till  Charles  hears  this ! 
Fanny  Burney 
[imploring   him] 
Oh,  Uncle  Richard,  if  you'll  — 

Richard  Burney 

Silence,  miss  ! 

N 


178     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

You  should  be  shamed  to  look  me  in  the  face. 
Thank  God  that  no  one  else  knows  this  disgrace. 
How  far  has  this  thing  gone  .?     Come,  answer  me. 
Who  else  has  seen  this  rubbish  besides  me  ? 
Fanny  Burney 
{terrified] 


Oh,  Uncle 


Richard  Burney 
{with  mounting  rage] 

Wait  till  Charles  and  I  confer! 


Who  else  ^ 


Fanny  Burney 
{between  sobs] 
I've  sent  it  to  a  publisher. 
Richard  Burney 
{furiously] 
Fanny  !     Don't  tell  me  you  have  been  so  bold  ! 
Fanny  Burney 
{sobbing    wildly] 
Oh, — worse — than — that !    The — book's — already  — 
sold. 

Richard  Burney 
[starting  violently] 
Sold!     Why,  God  bless  me!     Fanny,  you  don't  say 
That  you  got  money  for  it  ?     {He  stares  at  her,  open- 
mouthed.] 

Fanny  Burney 
{with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears] 

Yes,  to-day 
A  —  check  —  came  — 

Richard  Burney 
[eagerly] 

For  how  much  ? 


THE  SILVER   LINING  1 79 

Fanny  Burney 

[choked  with  sobs] 

Two  —  hundred  —  pounds.^ 
Richard  Burney 
[staggered] 
Two    hun —     Why,       Fanny !        I     am    dreaming ! 

Zounds ! 
When  did  you  write  ? 

Fanny    Burney 
[struggling  for  self-control] 

A  Httle,  every  day. 
I  covered  it  with  samplers  and  crochet. 
[She  zvipes  her  eyes.] 
Richard  Burney 
[quite  mollified] 
What's  the  book  called  ? 

Fanny  Burney 
[tremhling\ 

'Tis  "  Evelina." 
Richard  Burney 
[stunned] 

You 

Wrote    "Evelina"?     [Fanny     nods.]     Lord!     What 

a  to-do  ! 
When  Burke  hears  this  !     That  Clapperclaw's  a  fool! 

[with  triumph] 
I  knew  the  book  came  from  some  other  school ! 

[expands  as  if  talking  to  imaginary  people] 
"My  niece,  the  authoress.   .  .  ." 
Fanny  Burney 
[approaching  him  humbly] 

Uncle,  I  know 

1  This  is  a  slight  exaggeration  for  the  sake  of  dramatic  effectiveness. 


l8o     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

I've  been  deceitful,  but  I  loved  it  so  — 

My  book.     Forgive  me.     I  won't  write  again. 

Richard  Burney 
Eh.?     Oh,  tut,  tut!     I  wouldn't  cause  you  pain 
For  your  —  er  —  fault. 

Fanny  Burney 
{with  emotion] 

Uncle,  if  you  could  dream 
All  that  it  meant  to  me,  the  thrill  —  the  gleam  — 
You'll  never  guess  what  dull  hours  I've  beguiled. 
Richard  Burney 
[patro7iizingly\ 
There!     There!     Remember  you're  my  niece,  dear 

child. 
One  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  what's  one's  own. 
Fanny  Burney 
\zvith  quick  gratitude] 
Oh,  U7icle  ! 

Richard  Burney 

{co  iidesce  ndingly] 

If  you  want  to  be  alone 

Sometimes,  and  write,  I've  no  objection  —  none. 

Fanny  Burney 

[radiant] 

Uncle  ! 

Richard  Burney 

\to   himself] 
And  when  I  think  how  quick  it's  done  — 
Just  write  a  book,  and  make  two  hundred  pounds! 
[Cephas  appears  at  door  right,  an  old  man  in  snuff- 
colored  livery.     He  carries  a  candle,  and  an  iron  ring 
with  some  large  keys  on  it.] 

Cephas 
Miss  Fanny  — 


THE  SILVER  LINING  .l8l 

Fanny  Burney 

[to  her  uncle] 

Cephas  wants  to  make  his  rounds 

And  lock  the  doors. 

Richard  Burney 

Then,  child,  good  night. 

[Fanny  takes    a  candle  frotn    the    table.     Motions  to 

Cephas  to  go.     He  exits,  right,  and  Fanny  drops 

a  curtsey  to  her  uncle.] 

Fanny  Burney 

Good  night. 

Richard  Burney 

[intercepting  her] 

You  think  that  you  might  write  some  more  as  bright 

As  "Evelina"? 

Fanny  Burney 

[7nodestly] 

I  can  try. 

Richard  Burney 

Yes,  do. 

[Again    Fanny  fetches    hi?n    a    dutiful   curtsey.     He 

smiles  at  her  benignly  between  puffs  of  smoke  as  he 

stands  with  his  back   to   the  fire.     She  exits,   right, 

with    her   candle.     Richard    Burney   puffs    cojh- 

placently,  yet  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  must  speak 

aloud   in    order   to    give   vent   to    his  feelings.     His 

sentences  come  between  enjoyable  whiffs.] 

Richard  Burney 

Well,  even  if  the  hussy's  socks  are  blue 

She's  my  own  niece.     One  shouldn't  be  repining 

To  find  blue  stockings  have  a  silver  lining. 

The  little  baggage  !     Lord  !     Two  hundred  pounds  ! 

Well,  Charles  can  spend  it  fixing  up  his  grounds  ! 

quick  curtain 


BY  OURSELVES  1 

BY 

LUDWIG   FULDA 
Translated   from   the  German   by   Haya   Wally 


1  Reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with  Richard  G.  Badger, 
Publisher. 

Professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  strictly  reserved  by  the 
author. 


Ludwig  Fulda  has  written  many  plays,  of  which 
"Talisman,"  "Friends  of  Youth,"  and  "Twin  Sister" 
are  his  greatest.  He  is  emphatically  an  idealist  in 
literature.  As  will  be  seen  in  the  social  satire,  "By 
Ourselves,"  Mr.  Pu'da  is  an  adept  at  satirical  humor. 
His  "Talisman"  cost  him  the  emperor's  sanction  to 
the  Schiller  Prize  because  of  its  very  obvious  applica- 
tion to  that  ruler. 

The  mastery  of  the  dialogue  and  the  humor  of  the 
clever  situations  serve  to  show  how  observant  Mr. 
Fulda  is  of  the  follies  of  modern  life. 


BY    OURSELVES 

Characters 

Dr.  Felix  Volkart,  physician 

Hermine,  his  wife 

Baron  Hubert  von  Berkow 

Baumann,  a  servant 
LoTTE,  lady's  -maid 

[Dining-room  in  Dr.  Volkart' s  house.  Doors  at 
right  and  left.  To  the  right  a  zvindozo.  In  the 
middle  of  the  stage,  a  long,  richly  decked  table,  on 
which  are  placed  between  thirty  and  forty  covers. 
In  the  foreground,  to  the  right,  a  small  sofa;  to  the 
left  several  armchairs.  In  the  background,  a  drawing- 
room  is  seen  through  the  portieres.  Chandeliers 
in  both  rooms.] 

SCENE   I 

Hermine    [in     full     evening     dress].      Lotte.      Bau- 
mann [busy  lighting  the  chandelier  in  the  drawing- 
room].     [Later]  Felix. 
Hermine   [to  Lotte,  who  is  holding  a  hand  mirror 
before  her,  pointing  to  a  rose  in  her  hair].       Put  this  rose 
up    a    little    higher,  —  still    higher.     What  could    that 
hairdresser    have    been   doing  with   his   eyes !     That's 
right !     But  be  careful ;   you  are  mussing  up  my  lace  ! 

Lotte.     You    look    charming    again    to-day,    dear 
madam.     [Lays  aside  the  hand  mirror.] 

i8s 


1 86     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Hermine.  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  do  not  feel  at  all 
v\rell.  Our  first  party  —  it  is  so  easy  to  say ;  but  oh, 
these  care's,  this  work,  this  disorder !  One  must  think 
of  a  thousand  things  at  once,  and  there  is  always  the 
fear  that  one  has  forgotten  a  thousand  more.  And 
old  Baumann  is  no  longer  to  be  depended  upon,  past 
sixty  as  he  is.     {Calls.]     Baumann  ! 

Baumann  [hurrying  forward  with  a  lighted  taper  in 
his  hand].     Did  you  call,  madam  ? 

Hermine.     Heavens,  it  is  dripping  !     Blow  it  out ! 

Baumann  [blows  out  the  taper].  Did  you  call  ? 
Everything  has  been  attended  to. 

Hermine  [glancing  at  the  table].  Have  the  place- 
cards  been  properly  arranged  ? 

Baumann.  To  be  sure !  But  at  the  end  of  the 
left  side  — 

Hermine  [impatiently].     What  ? 

Baumann.  At  the  left  end  three  gentlemen  are 
seated  together. 

Hermine.  There  you  are!  Another  confusion! 
See  to  it  that  they  are  properly  arranged. 

Baumann  [does  not  move].  Oh,  if  only  your  blessed 
mother  could  have  lived  to  see  this  day  !  The  baroness 
always  used  to  say  — 

Hermine.  I  know  what  my  mother  used  to  say. 
Go  now,  and  attend  to  your  work.  [Baumann  goes 
to  the  table.] 

Felix  [enters  at  the  left  in  ordinary  attire].  At  last 
I  have  found  you,  Hermine !     Where  is  my  desk  ? 

Hermine.     In  the  store-room. 

Felix.  A  nice  place,  truly.  I  must  look  up  some- 
thing on  rheumatism  ;  now,  I  suppose,  I  myself  shall 
contract  it.     [Hurries  away  to  the  right.] 


BY  OURSELVES  1 87 

Baumann  [coming  forzvard  again].  The  small  tables, 
too,  are  covered.     Shall  I  not  place  cards  upon  them  ? 

Hermine.     Which  small  tables  ? 

Baumann.     In  the  blue  drawmg-room. 

Hermine.  Heavens !  Those  are  the  card  tables, 
Baumann.  You  must  remove  the  covers  from  them 
at  once. 

Baumann.  Yes,  when  you  w^ere  a  child  in  arms,  dear 
madam,  I  never  expected  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to  live 
to  see  the  day  of  your  first  party  given  by  yourself  — 

Hermine.     Terrible  !     Lotte,  kindly  see  to  it  — 

Felix  [from  the  right].  It's  simply  awful  up  there! 
My  desk  is  there ;  but  not  my  books.  Who  has  re- 
moved them  .? 

Lotte.  They  are  in  the  large  linen  closet  in  the 
bathroom. 

Felix.  In  the  bathroom  .?  Fine  logic  of  events ! 
{Exit  to  the  left.] 

Hermine.  Lotte,  kindly  go  and  see  whether  the 
carpet  has  been  spread  as  far  as  the  street.  [Lotte 
exit  to  the  right.]  And  you,  Baumann,  go  ask  the  cook 
whether  the  lobster  has  yet  been  brought ;  if  not, 
telephone. 

Baumann.     To  whom  ?     To  the  lobster  .? 

Hermine.  No,  to  the  delicatessen  dealer.  Num- 
ber seven  hundred  and  forty-six. 

Baumann.  It  will  all  be  attended  to.  Just  to 
think,  that  twenty  years  have  passed,  and  that  I 
still  have  the  honor  and  the  pleasure  —  [Goes  into 
the  drazving-roo7n  and  busies  himself  "with  something.] 

Hermine  [aside].     He  is  incorrigible  ! 

Felix  [enters  at  the  left,  zvith  a  lighted  cigar].  I 
cannot  find  the  key  of  the  linen  closet. 


l88     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Hermine.     It  Is,  doubtless,  in  your  desk. 

Felix.  This  is  a  fine  wild  goose  chase !  So  I 
must  go  again  to  the  store-room  ?  No,  now  I  give  it 
up  !     [Sits  down  in  an  armchair.] 

Hermine.  Felix,  you  are  smoking  1  Here  in  the 
dining-room. 

Felix.     No  one  is  here  yet. 

Hermine.  A  smell  of  stale  tobacco  at  our  first 
party  !     That  would  mean  our  social  annihilation. 

Felix.     Then  I'll  stop.     [Puts  away  his  cigar.] 

Hermine  [calls].     Baumann  ! 

Baumann  [comes  from  the  drawing-room].  Did  you 
call,  madam  .'' 

Hermine.     Take  this  dreadful  stump  away! 

Baumann.  At  once.  [Takes  the  cigar  and  smokes 
it  slyly.]     This  is  the  real  thing.     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


SCENE   II 

Hermine,  Felix 

Hermine.  Felix,  it  is  high  time  that  you  were 
dressed. 

Felix.  If  I  can  find  my  dress  suit  I  shall  attempt 
it.  Judging  by  the  state  of  things  here,  I  suppose  I 
shall  locate  it  somewhere  in  the  cellar. 

Hermine.     You  are  in  very  good  humor,  indeed. 

Felix.  Grim  humor,  the  humor  of  despair !  Be- 
sides, we  have  not  yet  seen  each  other  to-day.  So  I 
thought  — 

Hermine.  We  shall  see  enough  of  each  other  this 
evening. 

Felix.     Just  in  passing  by,  among  all  the  people. 


nV  OURSEU'ES  189 

Hermine.  Have  you  no  feeling  whatsoever  of  the 
duties  of  a  host  ? 

Felix.  Certainly !  But  also  of  other  duties.  It 
is  just  about  this  very  thing  that  I  should  like  to  chat 
with  you  for  a  moment  or  two. 

Hermine.  Chat,  now  .f'  This  is  no  time  for  chatting. 
To-morrow. 

Felix.     But  to-morrow  you  are  going  to  the  races. 

Hermine.     Well,  then,  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

Felix.  In  the  morning  you  are  going  to  the  matinee 
for  the  benefit  of  the  water  sufferers,  and  in  the  even- 
ing to  the  living  pictures  for  the  benefit  of  the  fire  suf- 
ferers. What  do  you  call  the  picture  in  which  you  are 
taking  part  ? 

Hermine.     Home  life. 

Felix.  Is  that  so  ?  Home  life.  A  very  promis- 
ing name.  So  you  see,  my  dear,  that  for  the  present 
we  shall  have  no  time  to  chat,  just  as  we  have  had  no 
time  until  now.  It  is  almost  four  months  since  we 
were  married  ;  but  we  always  have  time  only  for  others, 
never  for  ourselves. 

Hermine.  Felix,  I  still  have  a  hundred  things  to 
attend  to ;  please  get  dressed  at  once.  What  if  people 
should  come  — 

Felix  [looking  at  his  watch].  Nobody  ever  comes 
during  the  first  half  hour,  and  you  know  with  what 
marvellous  rapidity  I  can  slip  on  my  dress  suit. 

Hermine.  Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  tell  me  in  as 
few  words  as  you  can,  what  is  on  your  mind.  Other- 
wise, I  see,  I  shall  not  get  rid  of  you. 

Felix.  Will  things  continue  on  in  this  way,  Her- 
mine ? 

Hermine.     What  are  you  talking  about  ? 


I90     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Felix.  Well,  that  we  associate  with  each  other 
only  at  a  distance,  that  the  only  privileges  of  my 
dignity  as  your  husband  consist  in  this  :  to  accompany 
you  to  parties  and  then  to  bring  you  home  again ;  to 
sit  behind  you  in  your  box  at  the  theater;  at  races  to 
follow  you  about  holding  your  field  glass;  at  dances  to 
hold  your  bouquet  or  fan ;  and  everywhere,  when 
any  one  pays  homage  to  you,  to  stand  near  by  with  face 
expressing  the  utmost  satisfaction  and  indifference. 
I  am  like  a  subordinate  figure  in  a  show,  that  only 
spoils  the  effect  when  it  interferes  with  the  action  of 
the  play.  And  people  regard  me  as  a  perfect  model 
of  the  wholly  noiseless  husband.  For,  since  you 
consider  it  most  improper  that  I  should  ever  sit  near 
you  at  a  supper,  or  dance  with  you  at  a  party  — 

Hermine.  To  be  sure  it  is  improper.  Married 
people  are  together  enough  at  home;  in  society,  on 
the  contrary  — 

Felix.  At  home  ?  But  when  are  we  at  home, 
dear  child  ?  At  home  —  that  is,  so  to  speak,  merely  a 
geographical  idea  for  us;  that  is  only  the  base  of 
operations  from  which  we  undertake  our  expeditions 
out  into  the  world  at  large. 

Hermine.  How  you  exaggerate!  Do  we  not  have 
the  whole  morning  for  ourselves  .^ 

Felix.  The  morning .?  You  are  in  bed  the  whole 
morning. 

Hermine.     But  when  I  get  up  — 

Felix.     I  have  my  consultation  hour  and  am  busy. 

Hermine.     And  as  soon  as  you  are  through  — 

Felix.  You  are  already  gone  on  a  round  of  visits, 
or  you  receive  company  —  the  very  best  society,  I 
must   admit.     They   are   all   people  of  merit,  were  it 


BY  OURSELVES  I91 

only  the  merit  of  being  nobly  born,  of  having  ribbons 
in  their  buttonholes,  and  of  being  able  to  speak  on 
every  subject  under  the  sun,  particularly  on  such  as 
they  do  not  understand.  At  lunch  we  either  have 
guests  or  are  invited  elsewhere. 

Hermine.  Did  you  not  find  it  charming  at  the 
Chinese  ambassador's,  the  other  day  } 

Felix.  Very  interesting.  Even  the  spirit  of  the 
lady  who  sat  next  to  me  at  table  was  completely  sur- 
rounded by  a  Chinese  wall.  When  you  are  in  Rome, 
do  as  the  Romans  do.  I  made  spasmodic  efforts  to 
entertain  her,  but  the  only  answer  she  made  was, 
"How  funny!"  In  my  despair,  I  finally  read  her  a 
lecture  on  hydrophobia.     Hov/  funny  ! 

Hermine.  That  was  your  own  fault !  T  enjoyed 
myself  ever  so  much  better. 

Felix.     With  Herr  von  Walheim  ? 

Hermine.     An  extremely  amiable  companion. 

Felix.     What  did  you  talk  about  ? 

Hermine  [trying  to  recall].     Well,  about  —  about  — 

Felix.  Yes,  that  is  what  one  always  talks  about 
with  people  of  that  kind. 

Hermine.  Why,  you  do  not  even  know  what  we 
were  talking  about. 

Felix.  Nor  do  you  know,  —  and  still  less  does 
Herr  von  Walheim  know. 

Hermine.  But  we  do  have  the  afternoon  for  our- 
selves. 

Felix.  In  the  afternoon  you  go  out  riding,  or  shop- 
ping, or  you  have  guests  for  tea.     And  in  the  evening  — 

Hermine.     You  exaggerate ! 

Felix.  And  in  the  evening,  —  we  usually  do  not 
get  home  until  next  morning. 


192     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SCENE   III 

Hermine.     Felix.     Baumann  [entering  from  the  right]. 

Baumann.     The  lobster  is  here, 
Hermine.     That  is  good. 

Baumann.     A  splendid  animal !     It  is  still  alive. 
Felix.     Very  good,  Baumann. 
Baumann.     Shall  I  kill  it  ? 
Hermine.     Just  give  it  to  the  cook. 
Baumann.     Ah,     could     your    mother    only     have 
seen  this.     [Exit  to  the  right.] 

SCENE   IV 

Felix.     Hermine 

Felix  [after  a  short  pause].  Remarkable,  that  your 
family  doctor  should  have  started  on  his  journey  on 
the  very  day  that  your  mother  got  a  headache.  I 
still  recall  quite  clearly  how  I  was  called  in  his  stead 
to  attend  to  Madam  von  Forstner. 

Hermine  [earnestly].     I  also  recall  it. 

Felix.  The  case  stamped  itself  upon  my  memory, 
because  it  was  the  third  I  had  had  in  all  my  medical 
practice  to  that  day,  and  the  first  two  can  hardly  be 
counted.  The  first  was  a  servant  girl  who  had  sprained 
her  hand,  and  the  second,  a  young  man  who  confiden- 
tially asked  for  a  prescription  to  prevent  his  hair 
from  falling  out.  But  a  baroness,  who  had  a  head- 
ache,, that  was  a  decisive  turning  point,  decisive  also 
for  another  reason ;  for  that  was  the  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance. 


BY  OURSELVES  1 93 

Hermine.  Felix,  I  really  believe  you  are  becoming 
sentimental. 

Felix.  Well,  why  not  for  once .?  It  is  only  for 
the  sake  of  variety.  Yes,  it  was  the  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance.  Your  mother  was  perfectly  well  then  ; 
I,  however,  left  your  house  a  sick  man.  Even  the  arrow 
of  love,  in  the  light  of  modern  science,  proves  to  be  a 
sort  of  microbe.  I  was  head  over  heels  in  love  with 
you.  And  after  a  few  more  visits,  in  order  to  prescribe 
the  purest  raspberry  juice  for  your  mother,  a  table- 
spoonful  every  hour,  I  knew  it  was  all  over  with  me ; 
I  was  passionately  in  love  with  you. 

Hermine.  Had  you  not  better  put  on  your  dress 
suit,  before  you  repeat  your  declaration  of  love  to  me  .? 

Felix.  I  shall  soon  finish.  I  knew  perfectly  well 
that  you  were  a  true  worldling,  reared  in  a  whirl  of 
pleasures;  that  you  regarded  the  art  of  sewing  on  a 
button  as  a  sort  of  higher  magic,  and  that  for  you,  a 
cook  book  was  a  book  closed  with -seven  seals.  But  I 
also  knew  from  experience  that  girls  who  are  trained 
for  a  domestic  life  become  more  eager  for  pleasure 
after  marriage.  From  this  I  inferred  that  the  op- 
posite would  occur  with  you ;  and  as  I  said  before,  I 
love  you,  and  if  you  have  no  objections,  I  love  you 
still. 

Hermine.     Well,  that  is  just  as  it  should  be. 

Felix.     Naturally. 

Hermine.  On  the  other  hand,  you  have  not  yet 
told  me  how  you  like  my  new  dress. 

Felix.     I  do  not  know  the  value  of  such  works  of 
art,    until    I    see    the  —  dressmaker's    bill.     You    had 
better  ask  the  experts  that  will  be  here  this  evening. 
I  like  you  in  any  dress,  even  in  a  simple  one. 
o 


194     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Hermine.     You  have  no  taste. 

Felix.  At  least  none  that  keeps  pace  with  the 
current  number  of  the  fashion  journal.  I  read  this 
paper  too  irregularly.  In  such  things  I  cannot  at  all 
compete  with  our  friend  Hubert.  He  is  coming  this 
evening,  is  he  not  ? 

Hermine.     We  have  asked  him. 

Felix.     Have  we .? 

Hermine.  It  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  he  did 
not  come.     He  dances  divinely. 

Felix.  It  would  be  horrible !  {Suddenly  steps 
up  to  her.]  Hermine,  either  you  do  not  understand 
me  or  you  do  not  wish  to  understand  me.  Can  you 
not  see  that  this  life  is  a  torture  for  me,  that  it  brings 
me  to  despair  ?  Can  you  not  feel  that  it  is  my  most 
earnest  desire  to  have  my  wife  for  myself  and  to  be 
able  to  feel  at  home  in.  my  own  house  .''  And  if  you  do 
not  feel  it,  so  much  the  worse.  I  am  neither  a  toy  nor 
a  dummy  to  be  exhibited  for  a  show;  I  shall  make 
an  end  to  these  doings. 

Hermine.  I  understand  you  perfectly;  but  since 
the  moralizer  has  developed  into  a  stern  tyrant,  I 
must  tell  you  that  the  time  is  very  ill  chosen.  I  have 
no  desire  to  continue  such  a  scene  ten  minutes  before 
the  arrival  of  our  guests.  I  have  never  given  you 
occasion  to  doubt  my  love;  you  know  that  I  preferred 
your  hand  to  the  most  brilliant  offers. 

Felix.     I  suppose  I  should  regard  it  a  great  favor! 

Hermine.  It  was  no  favor;  I  have  already  told 
you  that  it  was  love.  If,  however,  you  demand  that 
I  shall  mope  away  my  youth  in  a  chimney  corner; 
that  I  shall  rave  over  you  all  day  like  a  mawkish  board- 
ing-house spinster ;  if  you  demand  that  I  die  of  ennui 


BY  OURSELVES  195 

because  of  my  love,  then  I  shall  never  yield,  never! 
It  is  my  right,  my  inalienable  right,  to  enjoy  my  youth, 
and  instead  of  its  being  a  torture,  it  should  please 
you  when  people  find  your  wife  charming  and  do  hom- 
age to  her.  I  need  these  attentions ;  they  give  wings 
to  my  soul,  they  fill  my  existence  with  a  thousand 
delights,  for  which  your  humdrum  chimney  corner 
can  offer  me  no  compensation.  The  great  world  at 
which  you  sneer  animates,  charms,  intoxicates  me. 
Are  not  all  of  you  ambitious,  you  men  .?  You  are, 
every  one  of  you,  and  why  should  not  we  women  be 
likewise?  I  am  ambitious;  I  want  to  be  the  queen  of 
the  feast ;  I  want  all  to  envy  you  your  possession  of 
me.  Time  enough  to  bury  myself  within  my  own 
four  walls,  when  I  am  old.  But  now  I  am  young,  I 
am  young;  I  want  to  dance,  laugh,  jest,  be  vivacious, 
and  this  you  should  not  prevent. 

Felix.  I  find  that  there  is  nothing  more  sad  than 
this  everlasting  mirth,  and  nothing  more  tedious 
than  to  amuse  oneself  so  systematically.  Do  as  you 
please;  but,  henceforth,  I  shall  no  longer  play  the  part 
of  your  satellite. 

Hermine.  I  am  of  age,  and  if  you  think  you  will 
be  able  to  justify  such  conduct  to  the  world,  then  J 
release  you. 

Felix.  I  am  responsible  for  my  conduct  to  my 
own  conscience,  not  to  the  so-called  world,  which  I 
despise. 

Hermine.  Because  you  never  took  the  trouble  to 
make  its  acquaintance  without  prejudice. 

Felix.     It  is  not  worth  the  trouble. 

Hermine.  Perhaps  more  than  your  everlasting 
studies  and  staying-at-home. 


196    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Felix.  Hermine,  you  are  reproaching  me  for 
taking  my  professional  duties  seriously  ! 

Hermine.  It  was  not  I  who  began  with  reproaches, 
but  you. 

Felix.  Under  such  circumstances  it  will  perhaps 
be  better  that  we  be  alone  together  as  little  as  pos- 
sible ;   for  you  —  [hlurting  it  out]  you  are  a  coquette ! 

Hermine.     And  you  are  a  prig  ! 

Felix  [excitedly  walking  up  and  dozvn].  A  very  pleas- 
ant evening,  truly ! 

Hermine  {in  an  injured  tone].  The  evening  of  our 
first  party,  too  ! 

Felix.  Yes,  now  I  shall  put  on  my  dress  suit. 
[En  exint.]  And  I  shall  take  as  much  time  as  possible 
in  doing  so,  as  much  as  possible.  [Exit  hurriedly  to 
the  right.] 

SCENE  V 

Hermine.     [Later]  Baumann  and  Hubert 

Hermine  [alone].  Such  a  scene  at  this  time !  Oh, 
it  is  unpardonable!  [Looks  into  a  hand  mirror.]  How 
do  I  look .?  All  flushed  and  agitated.  And  thus  I 
must  receive  my  guests  !     [Calls.]     Baumann  ! 

Baumann  [from  the  drawing-room].  Everything  has 
been  attended  to. 

Hermine.     Bring  me  a  Seidlitz  powder,  quickly  ! 

Baumann.  At  once.  [Looking  out  of  the  window.] 
A  carriage  has  just  driven  up  to  the  door.  Oh,  what 
joy  !     [The  doorbell  is  heard  ringing.] 

Hermine.  Quickly,  take  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men into  the  drawing-room  ! 

Baumann.     At  once  !     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


BY  OURSELVES  1 97 

Hermine  [calls  after  him].  And  do  not  bring  the 
Seidlitz  powder.  [Aside.]  This  mood !  Heavens,  I 
must  smile,  I  must  be  amiable  !  Now  all  my  pleasure 
is  spoiled.     [Goes  to  the  rear.] 

Hubert  [for  whom  Baumann  opens  the  door,  enters 
from  the  right.  lie  is  in  traveling  dress].  Dear  friend, 
first  of  all  grant  me  your  pardon  for  appearing  before 
you  at  so  late  an  hour  and  in  such  questionable  attire. 
But  when  one  has  been  forced  to  live  for  a  whole  week 
far  from  you,  there  can  be  no  more  urgent  busmess, 
on  one's  return  home,  than  kissmg  your  hand.  I 
am  come  directly  from  the  station,  and  since  I  had  to 
pass  here  on  my  way  home,  I  thought  I  would  stop 
my  carriage  in  order  to  —  but  what  do  I  see  t  You 
are  in  full  dress,  and  this  table,  these  formal  prepara- 
tions. —  Do  you  await  guests  .<* 

Hermine   [very   much  surprised].     Did   you   not   re-, 
ceive  our  invitations  .^ 

Hubert.  I  am  thunderstruck,  my  w^ord  of  honor! 
I  have  been  out  of  town  for  a  week  on  affairs  con- 
nected with  my  estate.  Your  invitation  has  probably 
been  lying  all  this  time  unopened  at  my  house. 

Hermine.     At  all  events,  we  hope  that  — 

Hubert.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  appear  as 
soon  as  I  have  made  myself  presentable.  'Twas  my  good 
angel  brought  me  back.     May  I  ask,  w^ho  is  coming  ? 

Hermine.  Only  our  best  friends.  Fortunately, 
no  one  has  declined. 

Hubert.     Charming! 

Hermine.  The  wife  of  Government-Counselor 
Heuer  with  her  four  daughters  — 

Hubert.  So  much  learning  en  masse,  each  one 
separately  is  a  walking  encyclopedia. 


198     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Hermine.  Malicious,  but  true.  Then  your  friend, 
the  painter,  Woronzow. 

Hubert.  That  is  to  say,  he  does  not  paint;  he 
only  lives  here  in  order  to  get  inspiration.  He  has 
lived  here  twenty  years.  He  must,  by  this  time,  have 
gathered  a  marvellous  amount  of  inspiration. 

Hermine  [jmiYzng].  Slanderous  tongue  !  And  what 
fault  have  you  to  find  with  Graf  Walheim  .? 

Hubert.  None,  save  that  he  pays  too  much  at- 
tention to  you. 

Hermine.     Further,  Baron  Marling  and  his  wife. 

Hubert.     A  beautiful  woman. 

Hermine.  Ah,  she  pleases  you.  She  is  to  sit  at 
your  left. 

Hubert.     And  at  my  right  ? 

Hermine.     I. 

Hubert.  Then  no  more.  You  shall  be  as  ever, 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  elegant. 

Hermine.  You  will  say  the  same  thing  to  your 
neighbor  at  the  left. 

Hubert.  Cruel !  You  misjudge  me.  Lady  von 
Marling  is  a  cold  beauty,  a  statue.  She  speaks  as 
little  as  if  every  word  cost  her  six  pfennig  —  doubtless 
because  her  husband  is  the  director  of  telegraphs. 
You,  on  the  contrary  —  however,  I  must  not  disturb 
you  any  longer.  I  shall  fly  home  and  return  a  trans- 
formed man.     Permit  me  — 

Baumann  [at  right,  with  a  Seidlitz  powder  and  a  glass 
half  filled  zvith  water].     Here  is  the  Seidlitz  powder. 

Hermine  [softly  to  Baumann].  Did  I  not  tell  you 
not  to  bring  it  ?     How  stupid ! 

Baumann  [loudly].  I  thought  because  Madam  was 
SO  excited.     May  it  do  you  good.     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


BY  OURSELVES  I99 

Hubert  [aside].  Something  is  amiss  here.  [Jloud.] 
You  are  not  ill,  I  hope. 

Hermine.  It  is  nothing,  nothing  at  all !  Merely  an 
error. 

Hubert.  No,  you  cannot  deceive  me.  You  are 
excited,  out  of  sorts.  Do,  please,  drink  the  Seidlitz 
powder. 

Hermine.     But,  Baron  ! 

Hubert  [while  he  prepares  the  powder].  You  must 
allow  me  this  small  service. 

Hermine  [laughing].     If  you  compel  me  — 

Hubert  [after  throwing  in  the  secofid  pozvder].  It 
effervesces!  Drink  it  quickly  !  [Hermine  ifrzn^j.]  At 
one  draught !  That  will  make  you  feel  better.  That 
is  right !     [Puts  away  the  glass.]     Do  you  feel  better  .? 

Hermine  [gayly].  Certamly !  How  worried  you 
are  about  me. 

Hubert.  More  than  about  my  own  life!  Oh,  I 
see  it  all.  This  Seidlitz  powder  has  played  the  traitor; 
it  tells  me  everything  clearly  and  distinctly,  every- 
thing!    Hermine,  you  are  not  happy  ! 

Hermine  [with  a  forced  laugh].  What  a  tragic 
tone  !     It  does  not  become  you,  really. 

Hubert.  No  matter,  when  it  is  a  question  of  your 
happiness.  I  have  known  Felix  since  we  went  to  school 
together.  He  is  a  thoroughly  good  man,  a  thoroughly 
honorable  man,  in  short,  a  character,  and  I  am  his 
friend.     But  — 

Hermine.  No  more,  sir!  I  am  his  wife  and  de- 
mand — 

Hubert.  No,  I  must  speak !  Your  happiness  is 
so  dear  to  me  that  I  must  risk  your  displeasure.  He  is 
a  character;    therefore  he  is  also  narrow,  and  because 


200     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

he  is  narrow,  he  is  unjust.  He  does  not  understand 
you,  he  will  never  understand  you ;   for  you  — 

Hermine.     I  forbid  you  — 

Hubert  [continuing  eagerly].  You  —  you  are  also  a 
character,  but  not  like  him.  You  are  high-spirited, 
gifted,  intended  for  a  fashionable  life.  You  are  born 
to  rule,  to  command.  The  man  who  loves  you  must 
needs  be  at  your  feet,  must  needs  regard  it  a  favor  if 
you  raise  him  to  yourself,  fortunate  man.  Fatal 
error !  How  comes  this  Provence  rose  in  the  vege- 
table garden  !  No,  do  not  deny  it.  He  offered  you 
but  the  well-tempered  warmth  of  his  study,  where  you 
had  expected  the  glowing,  flaming  rays  of  passion. 

Hermine.  Please  go,  sir;  I  must  not  hear  another 
word  from  you.  My  husband  may  come  at  any  mo- 
ment.    Be  silent,  or  I  shall  tell  him  everything. 

Hubert.  If  you  feel  that  I  have  not  spoken  the 
truth,  do  so.  But  you  do  feel  that  I  have,  you  know 
it.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  take  refuge  behind  a  pride 
which  cannot  disarm  me,  because  it  is  powerless  against 
the  strength  of  my  conviction  — 

Hermine.  That  which  you  call  pride  is  only  my 
anger  at  your  presumption,  which  I  — 

Hubert.     Which  you  must  forgive  me. 

Hermine.     Never  —  ! 

Hubert.  Just  one  more  word,  Hermine,  and  then 
you  may  condemn  me.  You  knew  that  I  loved  you 
long  before  Felix  entered  your  house.  I  had  decided 
to  ask  for  your  hand ;  I  wanted  to  lay  my  whole  self 
at  your  feet,  for  good  or  evil.  Just  then  a  mortal 
illness  confined  me  to  my  bed  for  weeks.  My  first 
thought,  when  I  recovered  consciousness,  was  of  you ; 
my  first  glance,  when  I  was  able  to  rise,  fell  upon  the 


BY  OURSELVES  20I 

card  announcing  your  engagement.  And  if  I  cannot, 
even  now,  stifle  my  feelings,  and  overcome  my  grief,  do 
I  deserve  your  anger  ?     Will  you  not  now  forgive  me  ? 

Hermine.     Perhaps  — 

Hubert  [with  a  rapid  change  of  tone].  And  may  I 
ask  you  for  the  first  waltz  this  evening? 

Hermine.  For  aught  I  care,  if  you  will  only  go 
now. 

SCENE  VI 

Hermine.     Hubert.     Yelix  [in  full  dress,  enters  at  the 
left].     [Later]   Baumann 

Felix.     Good  evening,  Hubert. 

Hubert.  I  am  merely  here  for  the  time  being, 
Felix.  I  came  directly  from  the  station  and  have 
only  this  moment  heard  from  your  wife  that  I  have 
been  invited  for  this  evening. 

Baumann  [from  the  right].  Madam,  the  cook  wishes 
to  ask  you  something.  It  is  something  about  the 
goose  liver. 

Hubert.     Capital  old  fellow,  this  Baumann. 

Hermine.  He  is  not  of  much  use  any  longer.  You 
will  excuse  me.  Baron.     We  shall  expect  you  later. 

Hubert.  My  dear  madam !  [Exeunt  Hermine 
and  Baumann  to  the  right.] 

SCENE  VII 

Felix.    Hubert 

Hubert  [aside].  If  I  work  things  cleverly  now,  all  is 
won.  [Aloud.]  Felix,  I  suppose  you  have  had  a  small 
scene  here,  somewhat  of  a  diplomatic  understanding  ? 


202     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Felix.     How  do  you  know  about  it  ? 

Hubert.  I  guessed  it  from  some  allusions  made 
by  old  Baumann.  —  Poor  friend  ! 

Felix.  Your  sympathy  is  in  rather  bad  taste,  I 
must  say. 

Hubert.  Because  it  is  candid.  Your  wife  is  the 
best  woman  in  the  world,  beautiful,  amiable,  clever, 
and,  believe  me,  she  is  a  character. 

Felix.  At  any  rate,  you  know  her  better  than  I  do. 
It  is  true,  we  are  married ;  but  we  see  each  other  so 
seldom. 

Hubert.  She  seeks  pleasure,  too  much  so,  let  us 
say.  Why  are  you  so  weak  as  to  let  her  have  things 
her  own  way  ?  Women  like  to  be  impressed.  My 
great  experience  — 

Felix.     Does  not  suit  this  case, 

Hubert.  It  does,  I  assure  you.  Women  are 
puzzles;  but  he  who  has  thoroughly  solved  one,  knows 
all.     I  have  been  in  this  school  long  enough  — 

Felix.     And  have  paid  dearly  enough  for  the  lesson. 

Hubert.  Very  dearly.  The  principal  thing,  how- 
ever, is  the  method.  Show  yourself  for  once  in  all  your 
dignity;  be  harsh,  tyrannical,  and  if  that  has  no  ef- 
fect, be  intolerable.  At  first  she  will  cry,  then  sulk, 
and  then  she  will  throw  herself  into  your  arms,  [aside] 
or  in  mine. 

Felix.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  But  in  order  to 
do  so,  we  must  be  alone,  by  ourselves,  and  for  that 
there  is,  at  present,  not  the  least  prospect. 

Hubert.     This  evening. 

Felix.  At  our  first  party  ?  We  shall  be  able  to 
say  very  little  to  each  other  this  evening.  At  such 
times,  our  whole  conversation  consists  in  her  whisper- 


BY  OURSELVES  203 

ing  to  me  to  take  away  her  lemonade  glass,  or  to  en- 
gage one  of  the  wall-flowers  for  the  quadrille.  Under 
such  circumstances,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  ty- 
rannical. 

Hubert.  Certainly;  but  follow  my  advice  as  soon 
as  possible.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  come  somewhat 
late.  My  dress  requires  arrangement.  Auf  wieder- 
sehen,  —  poor  friend  ! 

Felix.     The  deuce.     Spare  me  your  sympathy  ! 

Hubert  [aside,  in  exit].  He  does  not  suspect  how  I 
pity  him.     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


SCENE  VIII 

Felix.     [A  moment  later]  Hermine. 
[Then]  Baumann 

Felix  [alone].  Shall  I  try  Hubert's  recipe?  Or 
shall  I  find  another  for  myself?  This,  however,  is 
not  the  time  for  it;  we  may  be  interrupted  by  our 
guests  at  any  moment.  I  must  play  the  host,  how- 
ever inhospitable  I  may  feel.  It  were  best  to  pretend 
illness  and  go  to  bed ;  but  my  bed  has  been  taken 
down,  and  goodness  knows  where  it  is  to  be  found. 
Perhaps  I  could  decamp  and  take  a  room  at  a  hotel 
for  the  night.  No,  that  would  be  cowardly!  I  shall 
remain.  [Hermine  appears  in  the  drazving-room.] 
Here  she  is.  I  believe  she  is  really  angry  at  me.  [Sits 
dozvn  on  the  sofa  to  the  right.] 

Hermine  [entering,  aside].  It  is  already  half-past 
eight.  They  are  very  late,  in  all  probability,  because 
no  one  wants  to  be  the  first  to  arrive.  [Seats  herself 
in  an  armchair  to  the  left.     Aside.]     He  is  angry  at  me. 


204     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

I  cannot  help  it.  Hubert  is  right ;  he  does  not  under- 
stand me.  I  am  a  Provence  rose  in  a  vegetable  garden. 
[Short  pause,  during  zvhich  they  look  at  each  other.] 

Felix.     Hermine ! 

Hermine.     What  ? 

Felix.     Should  we  not  go  into  the  drawing-room  ? 

Hermine.     As  soon  as  any  one  comes. 

Felix.     Very  well.     [Short  pause.] 

Hermine.     This  waiting  is  tedious. 

Felix.     Yes,  indeed. 

Hermine.     I  am  freezing. 

Felix.     Have  the  heat  turned  on. 

Hermine.  Impossible;  the  heat  would  become  un- 
bearable later.     Please  hand  me  my  ermine  wrap. 

Felix.  With  pleasure.  [Both  arise;  he  helps  her 
on  with  her  zvrap.] 

Hermine.  Thanks.  [They  sit  down  again  in  their 
former  places.  After  a  short  pause,  the  doorbell  rings. 
They  jump  up.] 

Felix.     Some  one  is  coming. 

Hermine.     At  last ! 

Felix.     Shall  we  not  go  to  meet  them? 

Hermine.  It's  surely  the  Marlings.  They  are 
always  punctual.     [They  go  to  the  rear.] 

Baumann  [coining  tozvards  them  from  the  drawing- 
room].     Dear  madam,  they  are  —  here. 

Hermine.     Who,  the  Marlings  ? 

Baumann,  No,  the  goose  livers.  They  were  just 
brought. 

Hermine  [disappointed].     Oh  ! 

Felix.     Go  back  to  your  post,  Baumann. 

Baumann.  At  once.  [As  he  starts  to  go  to  the  right, 
he  glances  through  the  window.]     A  carriage  ! 


BY  OURSELVES  205 

Hermine.     Hurry!     Open  the  carriage  door  ! 
Baumann.     It   has   passed.     Oh,   how  I   wish   they 
would  come  !     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


SCENE   IX 

Felix.     Hermine 

Hermine  [sits  down  again].     How  tiresome  ! 

Felix.  Terrible !  [Also  sits  down.]  Hubert  will 
come  rather  late. 

Hermine.     Is  that  so  ? 

Felix.  It  has  been  a  fine  day,  somewhat  raw,  to 
be  sure. 

Hermine.     What  are  you  leading  up  to  ? 

Felix.  I  am  making  an  effort  to  begin  a  conver- 
sation. 

Hermine.     A  very  weak  effort. 

Felix.     You  should  have  helped  me. 

Hermine.     What  can  we  talk  about  now  ? 

Felix.     Really,  I  have  no  idea. 

Hermine  [rises  and  goes  to  the  table].  I  wonder  are 
the  place-cards  properly  arranged.  [Pretends  to  be 
busy  at  the  right  side  of  the  table.] 

Felix  [goes  to  the  left  side  of  the  table].  Where  do  I 
sit,  anyhow  .? 

Hermine.     Just  where  you  are  standing  now. 

Felix.     As  far  as  possible  from  you. 

Hermine.     It  could  not  be  arranged  otherwise. 

Felix.  I  am  convinced  of  that.  [Looks  at  several 
cards.]  At  my  right  old  mother  Heuer,  at  my  left, 
the  aunt  of  Graf  Walheim  —  charming,  what  provi- 
sion you  have  made  for  me  ! 


2o6     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Hermine.  I  had  to  provide  for  my  guests,  first 
of  all. 

Felix.  Undoubtedly.  [Sits  down  at  the  table  and 
pretends  to  he  speaking  to  some  one  beside  him.]  Dear 
madam,  you  go  to  many  parties,  I  suppose  ?  Will 
you  have  white  or  red  ? 

Hermine.     What  are  you  doing.? 

Felix.  I  am  arranging  a  rehearsal  of  our  conver- 
sation at  table  this  evening.  It  is  only  in  order  that  I 
may  be  sure  I  know  how  to  act.  [Continues  rapidly.] 
Do  you  often  go  to  the  theater,  dear  madam  ?  No  ? 
Naturally!  I  see  you  frequently  in  the  lobby;  I  had 
the  pleasure  at  the  last  concert,  too.  You  say  the 
pleasure  was  all  yours;  no,  indeed,  it  was  all  mine! 
Do  you  like  the  new  tenor  ?  His  high  C  is  more  than 
high  ;  it  is  inspired.  He  is  said  to  come  from  a  very 
good  family.  He  has  a  brother  in  Manchester,  who  is 
a  rich  silk  merchant;  there  is  a  rumor  that  he  is  the 
possessor  of  millions.  His  sister  is  married  to  a  build- 
ing contractor,  whom  I  met  in  Baden-Baden.  Do 
you  like  Baden-Baden  ? 

Hermine  [latighing].     You  are  ludicrous! 

Felix.  Do  not  interrupt.  Yes,  dear  madam, 
away,  over  there,  in  the  distant  horizon,  sits  my  wife. 
I  would  much  rather  be  conversing  with  her  at  this 
moment  than  with  you;  but  fate  has  decreed  other- 
wise. Shall  I  put  another  piece  of  calf's  head  on  your 
plate  .'' 

Hermine.  Your  rehearsal  was  not  at  all  bad.  I 
never  thought  you  could  be  so  delightfully  malicious. 

Felix  [rising].  And  now  you  perceive  it  for  the 
first  time,  after  we  have  been  married  four  months, 
and   one   moment    before   the   arrival   of  our   guests ! 


BY  OURSELVES  207 

And  this  time,  too,  I  am  but  the  makeshift,  who,  at 
most,  is  useful  only  to  help  you  pass  a  few  tedious 
moments. 

Hermine.  Did  you  ever  take  the  trouble  to  enter- 
tain me  ? 

Felix.  I  only  took  the  trouble  to  try  and  make 
you  happy. 

Hermine.     I  am  happy  when  I  am  merry. 

Felix.  I  am  harder  to  please;  I  demand  much 
more  in  order  to  be  happy.  I  could  not  find  it  in  me 
to  trifle  with  you,  once  I  had  decided  to  live  with  you. 

Hermine.     Listen!     Did  you  not  hear  anything? 

Felix.     No. 

Hermine.     I  thought  some  one  was  ringing. 

Felix.     You  were  mistaken.     [The  hell  rings. \ 

Hermine.  But  now!  [She  takes  off  the  ermine 
wrap,  and  goes  towards  the  rear.] 

Felix  [aside].     What  a  pity! 

SCENE   X 

The  former.     Lotte  [from  the  right] 

Hermine.     What  is  it }     Who  has  come  ? 

Lotte.  The  hairdresser.  He  forgot  his  curling 
irons  when  he  was  here. 

Hermine.  Take  them  to  him.  [Aside.]  How  an- 
noying, to  wait  so  long  !     [Exit  Lotte  to  the  right.] 

SCENE  XI 

Felix.     Hermine 

Hermine  [goes  to  the  window  and  softly  drums  on  the 
pane]. 


2o8     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Felix  [seats  himself  again  at  the  table  and  pours  him- 
self a  glass  of  wine]. 

Hermine  [turns  and  sees  it],  Felix,  what  are  you 
doing ! 

Felix.     I  am  thirsty.     [He  drinks.] 

Hermine.     Inexcusable ! 

Felix.  A  charming  state  of  affairs.  I  am  in  my 
own  house  and  should  like  to  make  myself  comfort- 
able in  the  evening;  but  instead  of  that,  I  must  sit 
here  in  my  dress  suit  and  be  bored.  I  have  cigars 
and  must  not  smoke  them ;  I  have  wine  and  must  not 
drink  it ;  I  have  a  wife  and  must  not  be  alone  with  her. 
My  study  is  cleared  out  and  serves  as  a  wardrobe. 
My  desk  is  in  the  store-room  ;  my  books  are  in  the 
linen  closet ;  where  my  comfortable  easy  chair  has  gotten 
to,  the  gods  alone  can  tell.  I  am  furious  and  must 
play  the  amiable  man.  And  all  this  for  whom  ?  For 
people,  not  one  of  whom  interests  me  in  the  least; 
for  whom,  in  fact,  I  do  not  care.  Why,  I  am  not  the 
family  physician  of  even  one  of  them.  Yes,  our 
most  gracious  Madam  Government-Counselor  at  my 
right,  and  our  most  charming  lady-aunt  at  my  left, 
you  are  of  the  utmost  indifference  to  me.  [Rises  as 
if  to  make  a  toast.]  And  you,  my  worthy  guests,  make 
yourselves  at  home ;  for  I  should  be  very  glad  were 
you  indeed  at  home.  With  this  sentiment,  I  raise  my 
glass  and  say,  fare  ye  well ! 

Hermine  [laughing].     Your  malice  is  irresistible! 

Felix.  But  in  vain.  They  are  coming,  all  of 
them  ;  they  will  eat  their  fill,  they  will  gossip,  they 
will  dance,  and  I  must  smile  to  them.  But  my  smile 
will  be  nothing  but  a  sugar-coated  dynamite  bomb. 
Hermine,  how  different  things  might  be !     How  com- 


BY  OURSELVES  209 

fortably   we   could    sit    here   together  —  by   ourselves, 
and  chat  — 

Hermine.    And  yawn.   A  whole  evening  by  ourselves! 
I  have  no  idea  what  we  could  do  to  pass  the  time. 

Felix.     We  should  not  try  to  pass  the  time;    we 
should  be  glad  if  the  moments  linger. 

Hermine.  But  we  must  find  some  diversion. 
Felix.  On  the  contrary,  we  should  spend  the  time 
calmly.  We  should  give  audiences  to  our  good  spirits, 
the  shy  house  spirits  who  are  frightened  away  by  noise, 
and  are  summoned  forth  by  quietness.  They  dare  not 
appear  at  parties;  but  when  two  people  are  alone, 
by  themselves,  two  people  who  love  —  hush,  here  they 
come  !  Do  you  not  hear  .? 
Hermine.     No,  not  yet. 

Felix.  But  you  will  hear  them.  There  is  still 
too  much  dance  music  ringing  in  your  ears.  They 
are  already  here  and  they  are  whispering  of  the  charm 
and  blessing  of  home  life.  And  suddenly  this  ap- 
parition of  the  invitations,  the  ball-room,  and  the  long 
tables  disappears.  We  are  in  my  study,  naturally 
not  in  the  one  that  is  cleared  out;  let  us  imagine  it  in 
its  normal  condition. 

Hermine.     I  imagine  it. 

Felix.  I  am  sitting  in  my  comfortable  easy  chair 
[sits  down  in  armchair]  and  am  smoking  a  cigar.  May 
I  light  one  ? 

Hermine.     No,  indeed ! 

Felix.  Then  let's  imagine  it.  You  are  sitting  at 
some  little  distance  from  me,  on  a  low  chair.  Will 
you  be  so  kind  ? 

Hermine   {sits  down  in  an  armchair].     Well,   I   am 
sitting  here, 
p 


2IO     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Felix.  I  sharply  close  a  heavy  book  which  I  have 
been  reading  till  now;  you  lay  aside  your  needle- 
work which  is,  naturally,  to  be  a  surprise  for  my 
birthday. 

Hermine.     What  next } 

Felix.  Now  we  are  glad  that  we  are  in  our  cosy 
room,  during  this  blinding  snowstorm. 

Hermine  [looking  out].  It  is  not  snowing  at  all. 
•  Felix.  That's  nothing.  We  are  pretending  that 
it  is;  it  will  put  us  in  the  right  frame  of  mind.  My 
lamp  throws  its  pleasant  glow  upon  your  dear  face, 
and  I  find  you  charming  in  your  simple  house  dress. 
The  snowstorm  becomes  more  and  more  violent;  you 
are  apprehensive  and  move  nearer  to  me.  [Hermine 
moves  her  chair.]  The  wind  whistles  and  howls,  and 
we  hear  a  broken  window-pane  go  clattering  down 
from  the  second  floor  on  to  the  pavement.  You  be- 
come more  apprehensive  and  move  still  nearer. 

Hermine.     Still     nearer .?     [She     moves     very     close 
to  him.] 

Felix.     I  dispel  your  apprehension  with  a  kiss. 

Hermine.     Can  we  not  imagine  that  too  ? 

Felix.  Impossible.  That  I  must  give  you  [kisses 
her]. 

Hermine.     So  far,  I  like  the  thing  very  well. 

Felix.  You  place  your  hand  in  mine.  [Hermine 
does  so.]  We  let  the  events  of  the  past  go  in  procession 
before  our  mind's  eye,  and  dream  of  the  future,  where 
we  — 

Hermine  [quickly].  Let  us  rather  remain  at  the 
past. 

Felix.  As  you  wish.  We  confess  all  sorts  of  small 
secrets  of  the  days  when  our  love  was  beginning,  of 


BY  OURSELVES  211 

the  time  when  you  were  still  my  unattainable  ideal, 
about  whom  I  raved  at  a  distance. 

Hermine.  Yes,  you  were  dreadfully  timid,  and  I 
used  to  laugh  at  you. 

Felix.  There  you  are.  And  I  bribed  old  Baumann 
to  spy  on  you.     Thus  I  discovered  — 

Hermine.     What  ? 

Felix.  That  you  had  confided  to  your  mother 
that  I  danced  quite  miserably. 

Hermine.  But  I  secretly  painted  your  portrait.  At 
first,  you  see,  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was  only  your  in- 
teresting head  that  had  captivated  the  artist  within  me. 

Felix.     Fortunately,  however,  you  were  no  artist. 

Hermine.  And  your  head  was  not  all  interesting. 
I  soon  discovered  that  the  thing  that  really  inter- 
ested me  was  your  heart. 

Felix.  And  since  then  you  have  given  up  paint- 
ing altogether. 

Hermine.  Oh,  I  can  still  paint.  I'll  wager  I  can 
make  a  good  likeness  of  you  in  a  few  strokes. 

Felix.     I  don't  believe  you  can. 

Hermine.     You  shall  see. 

Felix  [pulling  out  his  memorandum  hook\.  Here  is 
my  notebook.     You  may  draw  me  in  it. 

Hermine.     But  you  will  have  to  sit  very  quietly. 

Felix.     Like  a  pillar  of  salt. 

Hermine  [begins  to  draw].  Head  more  to  the  left; 
now  a  little  more  to  the  right.  [She  raises  his  head.] 
Now,  look  happy. 

Felix.     If  you  wish,  I  shall  even  look  happy. 

Hermine  [drawing].     No,  —  no,  it  is  not  a  likeness. 

Felix  [takes  the  hook  and  looks  at  it].  Can  this  be  I  ? 
It  looks  like  Samuel  in  "  Der  Freischiitz." 


212     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIFE  AUTHORS 

Hermine  [sighing].  I  have  forgotten  a  great  deal. 
Why  do  I  never  have  time  ? 

Felix.     Because  you  have  too  much  time. 
Hermine.     It  is  really  sad  that  I  should  never  have 
time. 

Felix.  You  must  pretend  to  be  sick  again,  as  at 
that  time. 

Hermine.  Yes,  I  only  did  that  in  order  that  I 
might  be  able  to  speak  to  you. 

Felix.  I  know.  "You  must  come  at  once  to  Made- 
moiselle," said  old  Baumann.  "Mademoiselle  has  a 
cold."  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  another  word,  but  in- 
stead of  declaring  my  love,  I  only  felt  your  pulse  six 
times,  although  it  was  entirely  unnecessary,  and  read 
you  a  lecture  on  colds  and  their  deeper  significance. 

Hermine.  Then  you  wrote  a  prescription,  which 
I  took  up  as  though  it  were  a  love  letter. 

Felix.  At  home,  however,  I  wrote  something  far 
different.  Let  me  confess  —  but  do  not  be  frightened 
—  it  was  an  awful  mixture. 

Hermine.     Surely,  not  poison  ! 
Felix.     Oh,  no,  verses. 

Hermine  [laughing].  Why  did  you  not  show  them 
to  me? 

Felix.  Thank  goodness,  I  never  sank  so  low!  But 
it  was  touching,  heartrending: 

"My  bleeding  heart 
Suffers  great  smart, 
And  in  my  breast 
There  is  no  rest. 
My  thoughts  are  of  you, 
And  I  always  feel  blue. 
And  this  indescribable  care 
Haunts  me  like  a  nightmare," 


BY  OURSELVES  213 

Hermine.     Poor  fellow ! 

Felix.     And  then,  my  modes  of  address.     At  first 
I  called  you  simply,  "Lovely   creature,"   later   "Sweet 
child,"    or    "  Goddess   of  my  songs,"   and  once,  when 
you  did  not  give  me  a  favor  in  the  cotillion  — 
^    Hermine  [frankly].     There  were  no  more. 

Felix.  Then  I  felt  out  of  tune  with  the  whole 
world,  and  I  called  you  :  "Serpent  deceiving."  This  I 
rhymed  with,  "  Oh,  how  I  am  grieving  !"  It  was  simply 
awful ! 

Hermine.  "Serpent  deceiving,"  —  that  is  the  lan- 
guage of  real  jealousy.  I  must  give  you  a  kiss  for 
that. 

Felix.  Gratefully  accepted.  [They  kiss.  The  door- 
bell rings ;   they  jump  up.] 

Hermine.     Oh,  these  everlasting  disturbances  I 

Felix.  It  is  really  inconsiderate  of  our  guests 
not  to  leave  us  alone. 

Hermine.  Why  are  they  so  late  !  Now  they  might 
have  stayed  at  home  altogether. 

Felix.  You  cannot  expect  that,  after  you  have 
yourself  invited  them. 

SCENE  XII 

The  former.     Baumann  [from  the  right] 

Felix  [to  Baumann].     Well,  who  is  here  ? 
Baumann.     Nobody. 
Hermine.     Who  rang  then  ? 
Baumann.     I  hardly  dare  to  say  it. 
Felix.     Who  was  it  r     Out  with  it ! 
Baumann.     Myself.     I    went    out    into    the    street 
to    see   whether    any    of  the    carriages   were   coming; 


214     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

just  then  the  door  clapped  to  behind  me  and  locked 
me  out, 

Hermine.  How  provoking!  See  to  it  that  we 
are  not  again  needlessly  disturbed. 

Felix.  Yes,  allow  no  one  to  enter.  Guard  the 
way  with  your  life.  Barricade  the  door !  Pull  up  the 
drawbridge  !  I  shall  defend  myself  against  our  guests 
to  the  last  drop  of  blood  ! 

Baumann.  You  are  surely  jesting;  we  have  de- 
lighted so  long  in  the  thought  — 

Hermine.  Yes,  we  have  been  awfully  delighted ! 
Go,  now,  Baumann. 

Baumann.     At  once.     [Exit  to  the  right.] 


SCENE  XHI 

Felix.     Hermine 

Hermine.     Felix ! 

Felix.     What  do  you  wish  .? 

Hermine.  Do  you  really  think  that  the  people 
who  will  come  to-night  are  false  friends  .? 

Felix.     At  least  not  true  ones. 

Hermine.     But  Hubert,  surely,  is  your  friend  } 

Felix.  Perhaps.  He  has  good  cause  to  be  thank- 
ful to  me. 

Hermine.     Thankful  to  you  .?     Why  } 

Felix.     I  once  saved  his  life. 

Hermine.     Did  you  .'*     You  never  told  me  about  it. 

Felix.     Why  should  I  have  told  you  .? 

Hermine.     Tell  me,  please  \ 

Felix.  Well,  it  was  shortly  before  our  engagement; 
Baron   Hubert   had   a  small   affair  of  honor.     It  had 


BY  OURSELVES  215 

long  been  whispered  in  society  that  he  was  assiduously 
devoted  to  a  lady.  But  the  lady,  as  it  happened, 
was  already  married. 

Hermine.     Married  ?     [Aside.]     Oh,  the  hypocrite  ! 

Felix.  One  day,  the  insulted  husband  found  out 
about  this  gallantry;  they  fought  a  duel,  and  Baron 
Hubert  was  badly  wounded. 

Hermine.     Go  on,  go  on. 

Felix.  The  physicians  had  already  given  him  up. 
I  was  his  schoolmate,  and  made  every  effort  to  save 
him.     I  was  successful;  that  is  all. 

Hermine  [aside].  And  he  —  oh,  fie!  How  could  I 
be  so  blind  !  And  are  these  the  people  we  seek  to  please  ! 
[Aloud.]  Felix,  perhaps  the  terrible  snowstorm  is 
preventing  the  people  from  coming  } 

Felix  [gayly].     But  it  is  not  snowing  at  all. 

Hermine.     I  wish  it  were. 

Felix.     Are  you  in  earnest  ? 

Hermine.  I  still  have  so  much  to  tell  you ;  and 
what  do  we  really  care  about  these  strangers  ? 

Felix.     I  agree  with  you. 

Hermine.  Let  them  come;  we  shall  act  as  though 
they  were  not  here. 

Felix.     If  you  think  — 

Hermine  [passionately].  Felix,  I  deserved  this 
lesson  ;   I  —  I  — 

Felix.     What  is  the  matter  .? 

Hermine  [throws  herself  into  his  arms].  I  love  you, 
Felix ! 

Felix  [earnestly].     Hermine,  my  wife! 

Hermine.  You  fool,  why  did  you  not  open  my 
eyes  sooner  !  Could  I  believe  in  the  joys  of  a  world 
that  I  had  never  seen  .?     In  this  small  world,  which  is 


2l6     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

yet  greater  than  the  large  one?  Let  me  be  your  pupil ; 
teach  me  the  magic  of  that  deep,  quiet  happiness  that 
is  a  thousand  times  better  than  loud,  tumultuous 
joys.     Let  us  fly  far,  far  from  the  world  ! 

Felix.  Need  we  fly  any  further  than  into  our  own 
house,  Hermine  ?  Do  these  four  walls  not  give  us 
shelter  enough  ?  Let  us  live  for  each  other  here,  we 
and  our  true  friends.  That  self-seeking  and  empty 
society,  those  people  who  are  agreeable  only  out  of  cal- 
culation, who  do  one  homage  out  of  vanity,  who  know 
merely  friendliness,  not  friendship,  amiableness  instead 
of  love,  —  those  people  shall  cross  our  threshold  to- 
night for  the  first  and  last  time  ! 

Hermine.  For  the  first  and  last  time!  Just  look 
here !  [She  hurries  to  the  table  and  changes  several 
cards.] 

Felix  [in  front,  aside].  Who  said  there  are  no 
miracles  !  We  are  alone  for  the  first  time  in  four  months 
on  the  evening  of  our  first  great  party.  [Observes 
Hermine  and  goes  to  the  table.]     What  are  you  doing  ? 

Hermine.     Look  here ! 

Felix.  I  no  longer  sit  near  the  two  relics  of  the  good 
old  days  !     Where  then  } 

Hermine  [triumphantly].     Here ! 

Felix  [following  her  motion].  Near  you  ?  What 
will  people  say  .'' 

Hermine.  Whatever  they  please.  We  two  should 
be  together. 

Felix.     That  is  what  I  say. 

Hermine  [drawing  out  a  card].  Here  is  my  dance 
card.     Have  the  goodness  to  engage  me  at  once. 

Felix.     For  which  dances  } 

Hermine.     For  as  many  as  possible. 


BY  OURSELVES  217 

Felix  [writing  on  the  card].     Just  as  you  wish. 

Hermine.  And  you  must  court  me  ;  that  is  my  only 
condition.     How  vexed  they  will  all  be  ! 

Felix.  That  shall  be  attended  to  promptly.  Yes, 
how  bored  they  will  be  ! 

Hermine.  And  we  shall  move  the  hands  of  the 
clocks  two  hours  forward,  so  that  they  will  leave 
early. 

Felix.  Yes,  we  could  also  get  up  a  conflagration ; 
such  a  general  panic  — 

Hermine.     I  agree;   I  hate  them  all! 

Felix.  I  have  never  been  so  happy  since  our 
engagement.    I  must  again  write  poetry : 

Oh,  my  dear  wife 
You  were  very  ill ; 
Your  cure  is  now  rife. 
Praise  God,  we  will ! 

Hermine.     Magnificent !     Yes,  I  am  cured  forever. 

Felix  [looking  at  his  watch].  And  do  you  know  what 
time  it  is  ^ 

Hermine.     No. 

Felix.     Five  minutes  of  ten. 

Hermine.     Impossible  !     And  our  guests  — 

Felix.  I  can't  understand  it !  Has  heaven  per- 
formed a  miracle  in  favor  of  a  poor  husband  }  Ex- 
perience is  against  it. 

Hermine.  This  is  absolutely  uncanny.  Why,  I 
wrote  all  the  invitations  myself. 

Felix.     And  did  you  mail  them  yourself? 

Hermine.  No,  I  gave  them  to  Lotte.  She  surely 
can't  have  —  [rings]. 


2l8     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

SCENE  XIV 
Felix.     Hermine.     Lotte.     [Later]  Baumann 

LoTTE  \comes  from  the  drawing-room].  Did  madam 
ring  ? 

Hermine.  The  other  day  I  gave  you  some  invita- 
tions;   did  you  mail  them  ^ 

Lotte.  I  gave  them  to  Baumann,  because  he  was 
just  going  out. 

Felix  [opens  the  door  at  right  and  calls].     Baumann  ! 

Baumann  [from  the  right].  Did  you  call .?  Every- 
thing has  been  attended  to. 

Felix.     And  the  invitations  ? 

Baumann  [taken  aback].  The  invitations  ?  I  do 
not  know  — 

Lotte.  But  I  gave  them  to  you  last  Wednesday 
mornmg. 

Baumann  [repeating  mechanically].  Last  Wednes- 
day morning.  Did  you  ?  I  must  have  attended  to 
them ;  I  must  —  [reflecting].  Of  course  I  have  at- 
tended to  them  !  I  wore  this  very  coat  that  day.  I 
stuck  them  into  this  pocket,  and  — 

Felix  [catching  hold  of  Baumann's  pocket].  And 
here  they  are  still. 

Baumann.  Oh,  unhappy  mortal  that  I  am  !  [Sinks 
down  upon  the  sofa.] 

Felix  [pulling  a  large  number  of  small  envelopes  of 
the  same  size  out  of  Baumann's  pocket].  This  is  charm- 
ing !  No  wonder  not  one  of  them  declined.  Our 
whole  party  is  to  be  found  in  the  pocket  of  old  Baumann. 
[He  breaks  open  one  of  the  invitations  and  reads.]  "  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Volkart  have  the  honor" —  etc.,  etc.     The 


BY  OURSELVES  219 

other   invitations,  probabU,  contain  the   same  words. 
Victory,  we  are  saved  ! 

Hermine.  And  I  have  been  running  about  like  mad,' 
for  the  last  three  days  !     And  look  at  all  the  fine  food  ! 

Felix.     We  shall  eat  it  all  by  ourselves. 

Hermine.  Lotte,  run  to  the  kitchen,  quickly ! 
Save  as  much  as  possible !     [Exit  Lotte  to  the  right.] 

Felix  [to  Baumann,  who  is  still  lying  upon  the  sofa 
as  if  stunned].  Brace  up,  old  brick!  It  isn't  a  matter 
of  life  and  death. 

Baumann  [contritely].  Oh,  madam,  sir,  send  me 
away;  I  do  not  deserve  any  better.  It  is  true,  I  had 
the  honor  and  the  pleasure  of  carrying  madam  in  my 
arms ;  but  I  am  no  longer  fit  for  anything.  The  thought 
that  our  dear  little  baroness  had  become  a  woman,  a 
woman  who  gives  parties.  This  thought  gave  me 
happiness  beyond  measure,  and  in  my  joy,  in  my 
happiness,  I  must  have  forgotten  — 

Hermine.     You  are  already  forgiven,  Baumann. 

Felix.  Forgiven  ?  No,  on  the  contrary,  were  I  a 
prince,  Baumann,  I  should  confer  upon  you,  at  least, 
a  patent  of  nobility.  You  have  given  me  the  most 
agreeable  disappointment  of  my  whole  life.  Give  me 
your  hand. 

Hermine.     And  give  me  the  other.     [The  bell  rings.] 

Baumann  [starting  up].  Now  some  one  is  coming. 
[Hurries  off  to  the  right.] 

Felix.     Credulous  soul !     He  still  has  hopes. 

Hermine.     But  what  if  guests  did  come  — 

Felix.  Without  being  invited !  Oh,  no.  To- 
morrow, however,  I  shall  have  it  published  broadcast 
that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Volkart  will  be  at  home  this  winter 
only  in  the  morning,  from  five  to  six.     And  now  — 


220    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Hermine.  Now  we  shall  celebrate  our  party  —  by 
ourselves.  The  table  is  covered,  the  rooms  are  bril- 
liantly illuminated,  we  are  in  full  evening  dress,  and 
we  shall  be  riotously  merry. 

Felix.  And  have  a  capital  supper.  Do  you  hear 
now  what  the  house-spirits  whisper  ? 

Hermine.     Very  clearly. 

Baumann  [returning].     The  pianist  has  come. 

Felix.  Then  tell  him  to  sit  down  at  once  at  the 
grand  piano  in  the  ball-room  and  play  a  waltz.  [Exit 
Baumann  through  the  drawing-room,  with  a  deep  how.] 
Madam,  may  I  ask  you  for  the  first  waltz  .'' 

Hermine  [pulling  out  her  dance  card].  Sir,  you  have 
already  engaged  me  for  it  some  time  ago.  [From  be- 
hind the  scene  come  the  strains  of  a  waltz.] 

Felix.     Your  arm,  madam  ! 

Hermine.  Forever!  [Exeunt  both  through  draw- 
ing-room. The  music  continues.  The  stage  remains 
empty  for  a  second.      The  bell  rings.] 

Baumann  [comes  from  the  drazving-room  and  goes 
to  the  window].  Who  is  ringing  again  ?  [Opens  the 
windozv  and  looks  out.]  It  is  Herr  von  Berkow;  I 
recognize  his  carriage.  But  it  is  my  master's  wish  to 
remain  alone.  [The  hell  rings  again,  more  loudly. 
He  closes  the  window.]  Yes,  yes,  ring  as  long  as  you 
please.  I  wouldn't  dream  of  opening.  [Sits  down  on 
the  sofa,  crossing  his  arms  upon  his  breast.] 

[Felix'  a7id  Hermine  become  visible  dancing  in  the 
drawing-room.  While  the  waltz  continues  and  the  bell 
is  again  violently  rung,  the  curtain  slowly  falls.] 


THE   RIDER   OF   DREAMS^ 

BY 

RIDGELY  TORRENCE 


1  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  by  special  arrange- 
ment with  The  Macmillan  Company,  Publishers. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made 
to  the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


Ridgely  Torrence  was  born  a  native  of  Ohio,  in  1875, 
was  graduated  from  Princeton,  and  is  known  as  a  writer 
principally  through  his  volume  of  verse  called  "The 
House  of  a  Hundred  Lights."  But  in  April,  1918, 
came  a  production  of  three  plays  —  folk-plays  for  a 
folk  theater  —  performed  by  a  company  of  negro  players 
in  the  Old  Garden  Theatre  of  New  York.  In  these  is 
found  vivid  drama  selected  from  a  vast  storehouse  of 
material  which  may  lead,  perhaps,  to  the  establish- 
ment of  a  folk  theater.  In  the  three  plays,  "Granny 
Maume,"  an  impressive  tragedy;  "Simon  of  Cyrene," 
a  very  suggestive  allegory;  "The  Rider  of  Dreams," 
a  comedy  resembling  the  Irish  drama  in  its  mysticism, 
are  introduced  the  author's  ability  to  show  not  only 
the  imagination,  piety,  superstition,  humor,  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  negro,  but  the  dissembling  relations  be- 
tween the  two  races.  The  author  has  painted  with 
sympathy,  power,  and  delicate  art.  In  "The  Rider  of 
Dreams"  there  is  a  burst  of  poetry,  and  a  display  of 
the  writer's  sensitiveness  to  psychological  effects. 


THE    RIDER    OF    DREAMS 


Scene  :  Night  in  a  room  used  for  kitchen,  dining-room, 
and  laundry  by  a  colored  family.  A  lamp  is  set 
upon  a  central  table  laid  with  a  spotless  table  cloth. 
Baskets  of  clothes  stand  on  several  chairs.  At  the 
hack  is  a  cook-stove  and  to  the  left  of  this  a  door. 
There  are  also  doorways  at  the  right  and  left  of  the 
room.  Lucy  Sparrow,  a  worn,  szveet-faced  woman 
of  forty,  is  sprinkling  clothes  at  an  ironing-board  at 
left  with  her  back  turned  to  the  table  beside  which,  on 
a  high  stool,  is  perched  a  small  boy,  Booker  Sparrow. 
Both  the  boy  and  the  zvoman  as  well  as  the  room  show 
a  painstaking  neatness  despite  the  disorder  necessary 
in  the  process  of  a  professional  "  wash." 

Lucy.     Who  make  you  .'' 

Booker.     God.     Ain't  the  mush  done  now  ? 

Lucy.  It's  done  but  I  aui't  done  wif  you.  You 
got  to  learn  good  befo'  you  can  eat  good.  Who  redeem 
you  ? 

Booker.  Christ.  I'll  stop  being  hungry  for  It  if 
I  don't  get  it  now. 

Lucy.  Bettah  lose  youah  wishes  an'  youah  ahms 
an'  laigs  an'  everything  youah  body's  fix  wif  an'  keep 
youah  immortal  soul.     Who  sanctify  you  .? 

Booker.     The  Holy  Ghost.     I  don't  want  nothing 

but  mush. 

223 


224     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Lucy.  Well,  you  ain'  goin'  to  git  hit  twell  you  luhns 
de  questions.     What  de  chief  en'   of  man  } 

Booker.  Chief  end  of  man  is  to  glorify  God  and 
enjoy  himself  for  ever. 

Lucy  [coming  szviftly  forzvard  and  confronting  him 
with  a  threatening  look].  Enjoy  his  self  !  I  ain'  neveh 
teach  you  dat.  You  know  betteh'n  dat.  Man  got 
no  right  to  enjoy  hisself.  He  got  to  enjoy  Gawd.  You 
knows  dat  as  well  as  you  knows  eatin'.  An'  you  got 
to  say  it  an'  what's  mo'  you  got  to  live  it.  Now  what 
de  chief  en'  of  man  ? 

Booker.     Enjoy  God  forever. 

Lucy.  Dat's  mo'  like  it.  [She  turns  her  back  and 
going  to  the  ironing-board  resumes  her  labors,  still  talk- 
ing.] I'm  raisin'  you  fo'  de  Kmgdom  an'  you'ah  goin' 
in  de  Kingdom  ef  pushin'  '11  Ian'  you  dere.  Because 
dis  time  anutheh  yeah  you  may  be  in  some  lonesome 
graveyard.     [Singing.] 

In  some  lonesome  graveyard 
Oh,  Lawd,  no  time  to  pray. 

[As  she  sings  Booker  stealthily  slips  off  his  stool  and 
going  around  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  takes  a  spoon 
with  which  he  approaches  a  dish  set  upon  a  warming-shelf 
fixed  to  the  stove.  He  furtively  dips  his  spoon  in  the  dish 
and  begins  to  eat.     Lucy  continuing  her  singing.] 

Play  on  youah  harp,  little  David, 

Little  Davy,  how  ole  are  you  ? 

"I'm  only  twelve  yeahs  ole." 

[She  turns  and  discovers  Booker.]  What !  You 
stealm' !  I'll  show  you !  [She  gives  him  a  cuff  and 
a  shake,  depositing  him  again  upon  his  stool.]  You 
shorely  is  on  de  way  to  de  fieh  but  I'm  goin'  pluck  you 


THE   RIDER   OF  DREAMS  225 

out  ef  it  skins  you  alive.  Steal,  will  you  ?  What  de 
sevenf  commandment  ? 

Booker  [sniveling].     Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

Lucy.  See  dat.  You  knows  it  but  you  des  won't 
live  hit.  Well,  I'm  goin'  live  it  into  you.  I'm  goin' 
slap  sin  out  of  you.  [She  gives  him  another  shake.]  An' 
de  grace  into  you.  Now  you  say  dat  commandment 
sevumty  times  sevun.      Begin.     Say  hit. 

Booker.  Thou  shalt  not  steal.  Thou  shalt  not 
steal  —  [The  door  at  back  opens  and  Madison  Sparrow 
stands  in  the  doorway  looking  on  the  scene  within  the  room. 
He  is  a  tall,  loose-jointed,  lazy-looking  man.  In  one  hand 
he  carries  a  long  green  bag.] 

Madison  [after  a  survey  of  the  situation].  What  de 
boy  do  } 

Lucy.     He  steal,  dat  what  he  do. 

Madison.     Um.     What  he  steal .? 

Lucy.     Mush.     I  tole  him  not  to  tech  it. 

Madison.     Well,  he  was  hongry,  weren't  he  ? 

Lucy.  Dat  ain'  de  p'int.  'Tweren't  his  till  I  give 
it  to  him. 

Madison  [places  the  bag  carefully  by  the  doorway, 
throws  his  hat  upon  it,  then  seats  himself  at  the  table]. 
Bring  on  dat  mush.  I'm  tia'hd  of  dese  fool  doin's. 
Dey  ain't  no  git  ahead  wif  um.  Ef  de  boy  wants  mush 
let  him  git  mush. 

Lucy  [placing  food  before  him  on  the  table].  Yes,  but 
not  rob  it. 

Madison.     Who  talkin'   T)Out  robbin'  .? 

Lucy.  Madison,  dat's  de  wrong  kin'  of  trash  fo' 
dis  baby  to  heah.  Go  lay  down,  honey.  Tek  de  bowl 
wif  you.  [Booker  whines  but  takes  a  dish  and  goes  to 
doorway  at  left.] 


226     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Madison.  No,  hit's  de  right  kin'  of  preachin'.  I'm 
tia'hd  of  all  dat  ol'  fashion  way  of  doin'.  Ef  I  wuz  to 
wuk  my  ahms  off  dat  ol'  fashion  way  I  couldn't  git  no 
furder. 

Lucy.     What  you  bin  wukin'  at  dis  yeah,  Madison  .? 

Madison.  Dat's  it.  You  know  dat  I'm  bin  lookin' 
fo'  it  and  couldn't  find  hit. 

Lucy.     What  you  wuk  at  last  yeah  .? 

Madison.     You  knows  I  wuk  in  the  strippin'  factory. 

Lucy.     Jes'  two  weeks. 

Madison.  You  knows  I  wuk  till  I  strain  my  back. 
But  neveh  mln'  about  all  dat.  I  done  tuhn  oveh  a 
new  leaf.  I  goin'  to  be  a  business  man.  I  goin'  to 
let  de  otheh  man  wuk. 

Lucy.     S'posin'  everybody  was  to  do  dat  way. 

Madison.  Let  'em  do  hit.  I  don'  ask  nothin'  of 
nobody.  I  goin'  to  have  every  toof  in  my  haid  covehed 
wif  gol'.  I'll  get  youah'n  an  Book's  fix  dat  way  too. 
I  goin'  to  have  plenty  society  grub  in  me  all  de  time. 
I  ain'  goin'  to  let  my  fam'ly  sufl^ch.  I  got  too  sweet 
a  disposishun  fo'  dat.     I'll  git  'em  whateveh  I  w^ant. 

Booker  {lingering  in  door:vay].  When  you  get  rich 
will  you  get  me  the  guitar,  Daddy  ^ 

[Lucy  waves  Booker  through  doorway.     He  vanishes.] 

Madison.  I'll  git  it  an'  I  got  it.  Watch  me  now. 
[He  goes  over  to  the  hag  by  the  door  and  reaching  in  it  pro- 
duces a  handsome  guitar.]  Dat's  de  beginnin'  er  good 
times,  boy. 

Lucy  [with  sickening  apprehension].  Madison,  where 
you  git  dat  insterment .'' 

Madison.  Dat's  de  Lawd's  insterment,  Lucy.  He 
done  pervide  it. 

Lucy.     Oh,  Madison,  dat  ain'  youah'n. 


THE  RIDER  OF  DREAMS  227 

Madison.     'Tis  now,  honey. 

Lucy.  No,  youah  las'  dime  you  spent  Sunday  an' 
I  ain'  give  you  no  money  since.  You  got  it  wifout 
payin'  for  it.     You  charged  it. 

Madison.  Yassah,  I  got  it  wifout  paying  for  it  an' 
I  going  to  keep  on  a-gettin'  it  wifout  payin'  for  hit  as 
long  as  de  gittin's  good. 

Lucy.     How  you  like  to  be  treat  dat  way? 

Madison.     What  way .? 

Lucy.  If  you  was  keepin'  a  store,  to  have  folks 
charge  things  when  dey  didn'  know  how  dey  could  pay. 

Madison.  I'm  willin'  fo'  to  be  treat  dat  way  ef  dey 
can  do  hit.  Let  'em  come  an'  git  my  things  if  dey  finds 
any. 

Lucy  [breaking  dozvn].  Oh,  I  cain'  stan'  hit.  Youah 
sinkin'  fas'  down  to  de  fiery  lake  an'  you's  pullin'  my 
Baby  down  too. 

Madison.  No,  I's  raisin'  him  up  an'  I  goin'  to  Ian' 
us  all  in  a  sof  place  on  dat  Easy  Street  I  heah  em  singin' 
'bout  so  long  wifout  seein'. 

Lucy  [suddenly  examining  the  guitar].  Wheah  you 
git  dis  guitar ,? 

Madison.     What  guitar? 

Lucy.  Dis.  Oh,  Madison,  dis  is  'Zek'l  Williams' 
own  guitar  dat  he  wouldn'  sell.  Dis  is  de  guitar  dat 
nobody  couldn'  buy.     How  you  come  by  it  ? 

Madison.  Look  heah,  woman.  You  ack  like  I 
stole  de  guitar.     You  don't  think  I'm  a  thief,  do  you? 

Lucy.     How  you  come  by  hit  ? 

Madison.     I  got  it  oflT  Wilson  Byrd.' 

Lucy.     Dat  sneakin'  w'ite  man.     How'd  he  git  it? 

Madison.     I  didn'  ask  him. 

Lucy.     What  you  give  him  fo'  hit  ? 


228    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Madison.  Oh,  dat's  anotheh  story.  Him  an'  me's 
goin'   in   business  togetheh. 

Lucy.  Oh,  Madison,  dat  w'ite  man  stole  dis  guitar. 
Oh,  take  it  back  dis  minute  an'  snatch  youah  soul  from 
de  bu'nin'. 

Madison.  Who,  me?  What  you  tak  me  fo',  gal? 
Take  back  a  guitar  to  de  rich  man,  de  man  what  own 
de  very  house  we  live  in  ! 

Lucy.     Well,  we  soon  will  buy  it. 

Madison.  Dat's  right.  We  will.  But  dat  ain'  de 
question.  I  didn'  git  dis  guitar  fo'  to  return  it,  I  git  it 
fo'  to  play  it.  I  boun'  to  play  it  cause  I'm  goin'  to  be 
er  rich  man  soon  an'  I  got  to  have  a  plenty  music  in  me. 

Lucy.     You  goin'  to  git  rich  playin'  guitar  ? 

Madison  [laughing  comfortably].  Eh,  yah,  yah. 
Whoopee  !  No,  indeedy.  I  flies  higher  dan  music  flies. 
I'm  one  er  dese  heah  kinc  cr  'lectioneerin'  mens  which 
make  dere  money  work  fo'  um.  Dey  sen's  one  doUah 
out  in  de  heat  an'  sweats  her  twell  she  rolls  home  wif 
anutheh. 

Lucy.  How  you  goin'  to  put  money  out,  Madison, 
lessen  you  wuks  an'  gits  de  money  ? 

Madison  [cunningly].  Oh,  don'  30'  botheh  youah 
haid  long  er  dat.  I  bin  down  low  and  folks  trample 
me  des  same  as  a  wu'm  but  now  I'm  goin'  spread  my 
wings  an'  sting  'em  like  a  king  bee.  Whaffo'  I  lay  dere 
an'  let'ni  trample  me  ?  'Twere  because  I  lack  confer- 
dencc.  I  puts  my  'pen'ance  on  dis  promis',  I  puts  my 
'pen'ance  on  dat,  an'  dey  all  fails  me. 

Lucy.     You  ain't  neveh  put  youah  trus'  in  Gawd. 

Madison.  Yassuh,  I  did,  an'  Gawd  He  up  an'  gimme 
de  go-by  too.  What  He  bin  doin'  fo'  me  ?  Nuthin'. 
Now  I  goin'  spit  on  my  ban's  an'  whu'll  in  an'  trus' 


THE   RIDER  OF  DREAMS  229 

myse'f.  An'  I  feels  lots  betteh.  I  can  feel  conferdence 
wukin'  all  oveh  me.  I  casts  'em  all  off.  I'm  lookin' 
out  fo'  myse'f.  M-m-m  —  It  took  me  long  time  to 
git  heah  but  now  I'm  heah  let  'em  look  out  for  me.  [Ilis 
voice  rises  to  a  chant. \ 

M-m-m  —  Midnight  on  de  sea.  All  de  lights  out. 
I'm  carryin'  hod  on  Jacob'  laddeh  to  build  me  a  new 
house  an'  I'm  buildin'  it  high,  man.  Don'  tech  me. 
I'm  a  flame  of  fieh  an'  I'll  singe  you  sho'.  If  dey  asks 
fo'  me  tell  'em  say,  "I  saw  somethin'  sailin'  up  but  he 
was  headin'  fo'  a  high  hill  on  de  sun  an'  my  eyes  failed 
me."  Tell  'em  say,  "He  had  de  fo'  win's  runnin'  like 
stallions  to  fetch  up  wif  him  but  dey  carried  'em  out, 
an'  buried  'em  in  the  valley.  He  bus'  dere  hea'ts!" 
Tell  'em  say,  "He  was  herdin'  lightnin's  like  sheep  an' 
dey  wuz  too  slow  an'  he  picked  'em  up  an'  sheared  'em 
an'  sent  'em  home." 

Dat's  me,  I'm  de  one  you'll  be  talkln'  'bout.  Fer 
why  ?  'Cause  I  cas'  off  ever'thing  an'  I  puts  my  trus' 
in  myself  an'  nuthin'  can't  hole  me.  De  mo'  I  says  it 
de  mo'  I  feels  conferdence.     I  feels  it  a-wukin'. 

Lucy.     You  goin'  to  wuk,  Madison  ? 

Madison.  Yes,  Indeedy.  I  got  to  wuk  an'  wuk 
ha'd.     I  can't  shirk  none. 

Lucy.     What  wuk  you  goin'  to  do  ? 

Madison.  I'm  a  stock  brokin'  man.  I  goin'  into 
de  stock  brokin'  business  tomorrer. 

JLucY.     How  ? 

Madison.     Buyin'  an'  sellin',  dat's  how  an'  which  too. 

LucY.  De  Devil's  wrastlin'  wif  you,  Madison,  an' 
you's  perishin'  fas'.  Ef  you  keeps  on  in  dis  paf  you'll 
Ian'  mongs'  de  rocks  er  mournin'.  You's  let  somebody 
tu'n  you  roun'. 


230     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

Madison.  Not  me.  Nobody  can't  tu'n  me  roun'. 
I  dreamed  it  an'  I  dreamed  it  right,  face  fo'mos'  an'  on 
de  run. 

Lucy.     How  dream  ? 

Madison.  Las'  night  an'  day  befo'  yistiddy  night 
an'  night  befo'  dat.  I  wuz  layin'  groanin',  "O  Lawd, 
how  long,"  an'  I  heah  a  voice  say,  "Git  up  an'  come 
a-runnin'."  Looks  up  an'  sees  a  fine  w'ite  saddle  boss. 
Hoss  say, 

"Ride  me  right  an'  I'll  guide  you  right." 

On  I  gits  an'  off  he  goes,  slick  as  a  rancid  transom 
car.  Comes  to  high  hill  lookin'  down  on  de  sun  an' 
moon.     Hoss  stop  an'  say, 

"Brung  you  heah  to  give  you  noos 

De  worl'  is  youahn  to  pick  an'  choose.'* 

I  ax  him  "How  dat.?"     Hoss  say: 

"How  is  how  an'  why  is  why, 
Buy  low  an'  sell  high." 

I    say   to   him,  "I   got   no   money   to    buy.     Wheah  I 
goin'  git  de  fun's  to  buy  low.?"     Hoss  respon'  : 

"Trus'  yo'se'f  an'  take  youah  own, 
Git  de  meat  an'  leave  de  bone, 
Bus'  de  nut  an'  fling  em  de  shell, 
Ride  an'  let  em  walk  a  spell, 
Findeh's  keepeh's,  loseh's  weepeh's, 
I  hope  dese  few  lines  find  you  well.'* 

I  ax  him  who  tole  him  all  dis  an'  hoss  say  : 

"Ole  hoss  Grab  will  nevah  balk, 
All  dis  heah  is  w'ite  man  talk." 


THE   RIDER  OF  DREAMS  23 1 

Dat  what  de  hoss  say  to  me  In  my  true  dream  ev'y 
night  dls  week  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  bide  by  hit  twell  de 
las'  er  pea  time.  'Cause  I'm  er  true  dreameh  an'  my 
mammy  she  wuz  befo'  me. 

Lucy.     What  come  of  de  hoss  in  de  dream,  Madison  ? 

Madison.  Dat's  all.  Hoss  went  up  in  smoke  an' 
I  come  downi  in  bed. 

Lucy.  Hoss  went  up  in  smoke  !  No,  hit  went  down 
in  smoke  an'  fiah. 

Madison.  Now  look-a  heah,  woman.  I'm  goin' 
to  make  you  a  good  livin'  f'um  now  on.  I'm  goin'  into 
business  termorrer.  I'm  goin'  in  de  specalatin'  wu'k. 
I'm  goin'  to  buy  low  an'  sell  high. 

Lucy.     What  kin  you  buy  wif.?     You  got  no  money. 

Madison  {hesitating  but  collecting  his  forces  grad- 
ually]. Oh,  ain't  I  tell  you  'bout  dat  ?  I  got  it  in  de 
dream. 

Lucy.     In  de  dream  .'' 

Madison.  Um  hmmm.  You  know  dat  hoss  I  tole 
you  'bout.  WMl'm,  jes'  fo'  we  pa'ted  he  prance  up 
th'ough  a  starry  fiel'  an'  come  to  a  gyarden  fence. 
Oveh  dat  fence  he  lep  an',  man,  she  was  a  fine  gyarden. 
"Whose  patch  dish  yer?"  I  say  to  him.  Hoss  say: 
"If  you  asks  me  grab  what  you  see." 

Den  he  reaches  down  an'  pulls  up  a  tu'nip  wnf  his 
teef  an'  gives  it  to  me  an'  say, 

"Dis  gyarden  truck  will  fetch  you  luck." 

[He  zvatches  Lucy  furtively.]  An'  I  takes  an'  sta'ts 
to  peel  dis  tu'nip  an'  what  does  I  find  ?  I  find  she's 
a  fine  fat  roll  er  bills,  dem  tu'nip  tops  is  greenbacks. 

Lucy.     So   youah   money   is    dream   money } 

Madison.  Well,  no,  not  ezackly.  De  hoss  whispeh 
sumpin'  in  my  eah  an'  told  me  how  to  make  dat  dream 


232     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS    . 

money  real  money.  An'  I  took  de  hint  an'  done  it 
today.  An'  on  dat  money  I'll  buy  low  an'  gouge  'em 
all  good. 

Lucy.     How  much  you  got  ? 

Madison.  Well'm  —  [He  hesitates.]  I  got  a  little 
an'  den  some.     I  got  erbout  —  fifty  er  so. 

Lucy.     Wheah  you  git  it  ?     [She  catches  hold  of  him.] 

Madison.  Tu'n  me  loose,  woman.  I  goin'  to  baid. 
I  got  to  make  early  sta't.     [He  pulls  of  his  coat.] 

Lucy  [wildly].  I  ain'  goin'  to  let  you  stay  in  sin. 
[She  snatches  the  coat  from  him.]  I  goin'  take  dis  money 
an'  make  you  say  wheah  you  got  it. 

[She  begins  hastily  searching  through  the  pockets  of  the 
coat.] 

Madison  [calmly  regarding  her  with  great  good  hu- 
mor and  breaking  into  a  laugh  as  she  fails  in  her  search]. 
Eh,  yah,  yah,  sea'ch  an'  look,  sea'ch  an'  look. 

Lucy.  Oh,  Madison,  ain'  you'  got  no  honin'  ter  be 
hones'  at  all .'' 

Madison.  Hones' !  What  kin'  er  fool  talk  is  dat .? 
I  done  got  my  ear-string  bus'  now  an'  dem  preachah 
wu'ds  can't  fool  me  no  mo'.  You'll  neveh  fin'  it,  honey. 
'Cause  why  ?  'Cause  I'm  got  it  in  my  pants  an'  I  goin' 
to  keep  it  f'uni   a  foolish  woman. 

Lucy  [running  to  him  desperately].  You  got  to  give 
it  to  me. 

Madison.  Gal,  if  you  don'  tu'n  me  loose  I'll  git 
ugly.  Now,  look  heah.  I  wants  to  heah  de  las'  er  dis. 
I  got  new  ideahs.  I  got  big  plots  en  plans.  I  done  give 
you  de  plankses  in  my  platfo'm  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  stan' 
on  hit.  When  I  makes  a  lot  mo'  money  in  de  broker 
business  I'm  a-goin'  to  give  you  all  de  gold  youah 
ap'un'U  hold,  ev'y  day  er  youah  life,  an'  you  won'  have 


THE  RIDER   OF  DREAMS  233 

to  wait  long.  But  till  dat  day  an'  to  dat  time  I'm  de 
treasu'eh  er  dis  lodge  an'  I'm  de  stake  holdeh  er  dis 
race  an'  dat  money  stays  in  de  pu'se  in  de  hip  er  my  ol' 
jeanses.  [He  says  this  last  sloivly  and  zvith  growing  em- 
phasis and  as  he  ends,  gives  himself  a  resounding  whack 
on  the  hip  over  his  pocket.  There  is  a  moment' s  pause. 
He  puts  his  hand  hurriedly  in  the  pocket  and  then  dazedly 
into  one  on  the  other  hip.]  What  dis  ?  Wheah  dat 
roll  ? 

Lucy  [fearfully].  I  am'  tech  it.  You  know  I  ain' 
ben    neah    you. 

Madison  [rushing  to  her].     Gimme  de  coat. 

[He snatches  the  coat  and  begins  going  through  the  pockets, 
from  time  to  time  searching  and  slapping  the  garments  he 
is  wearing.]     Didn't  you  git  it  .f*     You  mus'  er  tuk  it. 

Lucy.  No,  Madison,  I  ain'  see  nor  tech  it.  You 
watched  me. 

Madison.     Oh,  Lawd,  he'p  me  look. 

[He  begins  to  run  around  the  room,  looking  on  the  table, 
picking  up  articles  and  letting  them  fall,  dropping  on  his 
knees  and  hunting  under  the  table  and  chairs.  As  he 
searches  he  grows  more  frantic] 

Oh,  my  Lawd,  oh,  wheah  is  it .?  I  got  to  have  it. 
Oh,  I  couldn'  lose  it,  hit  ain'  mine  ter  lose.  Stay  by  me, 
Lucy,  an'  he'p  me  fin'  it ;  git  down  on  youah  knees,  Lucy. 
Oh,  wheah  did  I  drop  it .?  I'm  gittin'  old  an'  needs  it. 
Ef  I  lose  dis  I  lose  all  my  push.  I  was  jes'  goin'  into 
business  an'  we  all  wuz  goin'  to  fly  high.  I  got  to  fin' 
it.  I  ain'  give  up.  Lemme  think.  Oh,  I  hopes  some 
hones'  puson  foun'  it.  Lemme  come  on  down  —  Know 
I  put  it  on  dat  side  'cause  dat  de  side  Mistah  Long  he 
wuz  on  —  Oh,  I'll  go  crazy  —  [He  strikes  his  forehead, 
groaning.] 


234     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Lucy  [starting].  Mistah  Long !  He's  cashiah  in  de 
Dime  Savin's!     How  he  give  you  money? 

Madison.  Oh,  lemme  see  —  he  gimme  de  money  an' 
put  it  right  in  yere.  [He  Jumbles  again  distractedly  in 
his  pocket.] 

Lucy  [pursuing  him  desperately].  Onliest  money 
at  de  Dime  Savin's  is  de  money.  You  couldn't  draw 
hit  out.  You  didn'  do  dat,  —  you  couldn'  —  Tell  me 
if  you  did  fo'  I'll  fin'  it  out  tomorrer  —  Oh,  tell  me 
true  —  you  couldn'  when  it's  in  my  name  —  tell  me 
now  fo'  I'll  find  it  out. 

Madison.     Oh,  I  can't  stand  it. 

Lucy.  Ef  you  wan'  me  to  he'p  you  den  be  free  wif 
me.  How  you  draw  money  from  de  Bank  .''  I  give 
you  no  papeh.     You  couldn    draw  de  money. 

Madison.     Wilson  Byrd,  he  gimme  de  papeh. 

Lucy.     I  give  him  no  papeh. 

Madison.     He  write  it  fo'  you. 

Lucy.  Oh,  Gawd,  dat  w'ite  man  write  my  name. 
You  drawed  de  money  —  I  see  it  now.  You  had  dealin's 
wif  a  fo'geh,  Wilson  Byrd. 

Madison.  Spar'  me  an'  he'p  me.  He  tol'  me  ef  I 
draw  de  money  he'd  take  me  into  business  wif  him  an' 
gimme  de  guitar  besides. 

Lucy.  Did  you  spar'  me  ?  Fifty  dollahs !  You 
said  fifty,  didn'  you  .''  How  could  you  do  hit  ^.  More'n 
six  months'  ha'd  slavin'.  Six  months  mo'  befo'  I  can 
resto'  it  back.  I  could  a  bought  de  house  tomorrer 
mo'nin'  an'  now  hit's  six  months  off  to  pay  in  dat  fifty. 
It  was  fifty,  didn'  you  say  ^  Maybe  'twuzzn'  dat  much. 
Tell  me  right.     I'll  fin'  it  out  tomorrer. 

Madison.     Dis  yere'll  kill  me  ef  I  can't  think. 

Lucy.     How  much  you  draw  .?     Tell  me  right.     Look 


THE  RIDER   OF  DREAMS  235 

at  me.  Were  hit  Hfty  ?  [She  holds  his  eye.]  Less  ? 
Mo'  ?  How  much  ?  [She  continues  to  hold  his  lustreless 
eyes,  reading  thevi.\  A  hunde'd  ?  Two  hunde'd  ? 
Eight  hunde'd  ?  [A  pause  ensues  as  she  reads  the  truth 
in  his  face.]  All  of  hit.  [She  sinks  in  a  chair.]  Twelve 
yeahs'  labor  sence  I  married  you  an'  termorrer  I 
wuz  goin'  to  mek  de  payment  an'  we'd  a  bin  undeh  owah 
own  roof.  I'm  done.  I  could  a  paid  off  pa't,  mebbe 
fifty,  but  I  won'  las'  twelve  yeahs  mo'  at  de  same  thing. 
But  I  thank  Thee,  Lawd,  dat  it  wuz  stole  f'um  us  all  ef 
hit  had  to  be  stole. 

Madison.  Ef  I  could  on'y  think.  Had  hit  in  de 
bank  —  felt  hit  an'  had  it  on  Thu'd  Street  —  slapped 
hit  an'  had  it  at  Joe's  house  —  slapped  hit  an'  had  it 
coming  up  de  alley  —  jes'  fo'  I  clum  de  hill  —  lemme 
see  —  clum  de  hill  —  went  in  th'oo  Wilson  Byrd's 
hedge  fence  —  he  gimme  de  guitar  —  scrape  my  back 
comin'  out  —  [His  face  shozvs  gradual  recollection,  and 
suddenly  brightens.]  I  knows  now !  Dat's  hit !  In 
dat  white  man's  yard  wheah  he  gimme  de  guitar!  I 
wuz  jes'  goin'  to  give  him  de  money  when  somebody 
grabbed  him  f'um  behin'.  He  give  a  squawk  an'  skeered 
me.  I  run  out  th'oo  his  hedge  fence  an'  scrape  my 
back.  I  scrape  de  pocketbook  out.  She's  dere  !  In 
dat  Wilson  Byrd's  yard.  I'll  git  it  yit.  Watch  me. 
[He  grabs  his  hat  and  runs  excitedly  toward  the  door.] 

Lucy  [rushing  to-ivard  him].  No,  sumpin'  might 
happen.  You  might  git  mix  up  wif  him  ergin.  Lemme 
go,  but  I  mus'  resto'  dis  guitar  at  Uncle  Williams'  as  I 
go  by  his  house.  I'll  slip  it  on  his  porch.  Maybe  he'll 
neveh  know  It  wuz  gone.  Oh,  if  somebody  had  seen 
it  heah  !     How  could  I  have  stood  it  ^. 

[She  puts  on  a  shazvl  and  takes  up  the  hag,  but  as  she 


236     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

lays  her  hand  on  the  door-knob  a  loud  knock  is  heard  on 
the  door.  Both  start  back  and  wait.  The  knock  is  re- 
peated. She  throzvs  off  the  shazvl,  places  the  bag  in  a 
corner,  and  returning  to  the  door,  opens  it.  She  greets 
the  visitor  in  a  strained  voice,  almost  zvith  a  shriek.] 

Uncle  Williams !     Step  in,  please. 

[y/  man  enters.  The  newcomer  is  old,  zvith  white  hair 
and  beard.  lie  is  probably  of  Moorish  descent.  He  is 
so  small  and  weazened  as  to  be  almost  a  dwarf,  but  his  whole 
demeanor  indicates  great  latent  power.  A  strong  person- 
ality, dominating  the  two  others  from  the  first  instant.] 

Williams.     Good  evenin',  Lucy. 

[lie  seems  to  be  unaware  of  the  presence  of  Madison. 
He  comes  forward  with  little  mincijig  steps  and  an  old 
mans  gesture,  then  takes  off  his  hat  and  sees  about  him. 
The  others  stand  watching  him  transfixed.] 

Ain'  you  goln'  shut  de  do',  Lucy  ?  I  feels  draf's. 
I'm  gittin'  old  an'  catches  cold  easy.  Ain'  you  goin' 
take  ni}^  hat .?  [She  reaches  for  it  mechanically,  watch- 
ing him  apprehensively.]  No,  de  hat  —  not  de  stick  — 
ol'  pu'son  like  me  always  need  good  stout  stick  er  club 
case  er  havin'  faintin'  spell  —  sumpin'  to  lean  on. 
Now,  wheah  a  cheer,  better  fetch  me  er  cheer  fo'  feah 
I  might  set  on  sumpin'  you  wouldn't  choose  fo'  me. 
[She  obeys  dumbly  and  brings  a  chair  to  him.]  Set  it 
neareh.  Dat's  right.  Now  gimme  youah  shouldeh 
an'  ease  me  down.  Ah  —  [He  leans  heavily  on  her  and 
sinks  totteringly  into  the  chair  with  a  great  show  of  feeble- 
ness.] Now  take  a  cheer  yo'se'f.  I  'sprize  to  see  a 
lady  standin'  an'  me  takin'  my  res',  old  ez  I  is.  [She 
obeys,  watching  him  zvith  doubt  and  dread.]  Set  it  dah, 
wheah  I  can  see  you  good.  [Madison  is  standing  up 
by  the  wall,  right,  gazing  at  him  as  though  paralyzed  with 


THE  RIDER  OF  DREAMS  237 

fear.]  Dah  now.  We  kin  be  ca'm  and  have  a  nice  talk. 
Does  you  know  what  business  I  come  yere  fo'  tonight  ? 
[He  pauses.]     You  does,  doesn't  you  ? 

Lucy  [almost  beside  herself  tvith  nervous  tension]. 
You  —  come  to  see  —  ef —  [Recovering  herself  with  a 
mighty  effort.]  Oh,  yes,  you  come  to  look  oveh  de  stove 
an'  see  ef  you  like  to  buy  hit. 

Williams  [musingly].  M-m.  Well,  I  reckon  — 
dat's  hit.  Yes,  dey  tells  me  y'all  has  a  wahmin' 
stove  to  sell  an'  now  katydid  cease,  fros'  ain'  fur  off, 
an'  I  needs  hit.     Is  dish  yere  de  one  ? 

Lucy  [rising  and  rushing  tozuard  door  at  side].  No, 
not  dat.     Hit's  outside  —  ef  you  please  to  step  out. 

Williams.  Well'm,  Lll  take'n  look  her  oveh.  [She 
hastily  lights  a  candle  as  he  rises  and  totters  in  the  wrong 
direction.] 

Lucy.  Th'oo  heah,  th'oo  heah.  De  stove's  out  in 
de  woodshed.     [She  grasps  and  guides  him.] 

Williams.  Ah  —  well'm.  Um  hm.  I  always  gives 
things  er  good  lookin'  oveh  befo'  takin'  stock  in  'm. 
You  needn'  come  erlong.  I  lived  so  long  in  dis  house 
befo'  you  wuz  bawn  dat  I  knows  my  way.  Is  de  stove 
an  easy  wood  eateh  .^ 

Lucy.  Yes,  yes.  [She  gives  him  the  candle  and  almost 
pushes  him  through  doorway  at  side  as  she  follows  him 
out.  Madison,  who  has  zvatched  fearfully  from  a  dark 
corner,  darts  forward  and  looks  after  them,  listening.  He 
then  runs  tozvard  the  door  at  hack  hut  hesitates  before  it 
and  turns  as  Lucy  comes  swiftly  in  from  outer  room,  clos- 
ing the  door  softly.] 

Madison.     What  he  say.?     Do  he  know? 
Lucy    [desperately   seizing    the    hag    arid    pressiiig    it 
into  his  hands  as  she  turns  him  again  toward  doorway  at 


238     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

back].  Oh,  I  cain'  tell.  On'y  resto'  dis  in  case  he 
don'  know  er  case  he  do.  Now's  de  one  chance  to  be 
hones'. 

Madison.  Huh.  What  erbout  dat  eight  hunderd 
dollah  ? 

Lucy.     I  don'  know.     Trus'  Gawd  an'  be  hones'. 

Madison.  Huh  uh.  One  of  us  has  got  to  go  look 
fo'  dat  money. 

Lucy.     One  of  us  has  got  to  take  back  de  guitar. 

Madison.     I'm  goin'  fo'  de  money. 

Lucy.  Den  I'll  take  dis.  [She  takes  up  the  guitar 
and  she  and  Madison  go  toward  door  at  hack.  Then  she 
halts.]  Oh,  Madison,  you  can  do  bofe.  One  of  us  has 
got  to  stay  wif  Uncle  Williams.  But  take  back  de 
guitar  first. 

Madison.  All  right.  I'll  go.  An'  I  ain't  played 
on  dis  heah  but  twice.     [He  takes  the  guitar  from  her.] 

Lucy.  Go  now.  Can  you  fin'  youah  way  to  his 
porch    in    de   dahk  ? 

Madison.  Will  we  find  de  money  .?  Dat's  de  p'oblem 
I  wants  de  answeh  fo'. 

[Lucy  opens  door  at  hack  to  go  out.  Madison  is  at  her 
side.  Both  start  hack.  Williams  stands  hefore  them 
in  the  open  doorway.] 

Lucy  [haltingly,  after  a  pause].  How  —  you  like 
—  de  stove  "? 

Williams  [e^itering  more  vigorously  than  hefore], 
Well'm  befo'  we  goes  any  furder  we  betteh  come  neareh 
de  real  p'int  and  question.  I  didn't  come  fo'  no  stove 
dis  night.     [Madison  shrinks  hack  into  the  shadozvs.] 

Lucy  [slowly].     Yo'  —  don'  —  wan'  — 

Williams.  No'm.  To  be  sho',  I  might  tek  de 
stove  one  er  dese  days,  but  dat  ain'  my  erran'  now. 


THE  RIDER   OF  DREAMS  239 

Hit's  dis;  does  you   know  when  we  mek   de  bargum 
about  you  buying  dis  heah  house  ? 

Lucy.     Twelve  yeah  ago. 

Williams.  Gal,  you  dreamin' !  'Tweren't  but  las' 
year.  'Twere  de  fus'  er  Octobah  las'  year  an'  I  say  I 
gives  you  de  refusals  fer  one  yeah.     'Membeh  dat  ? 

Lucy.     Yassuh. 

Williams.  So  fur  so  good.  Now  does  you  know 
what   day   de   month   dis   is  ? 

Lucy.     Fus'  er  Octobah. 

Williams.  Dat's  true  as  preachin'.  Well'm,  time's 
up. 

Lucy.     What  you  mean  .'' 

Williams.  Fm  er  man  er  my  wuhd.  Pay  me  de 
money  an'  tek  de  house. 

Lucy.     Termorrer  — 

Williams.     No.     Termorrer  won'  do. 

Lucy.  Why  you  push  me  so  .''  Oh,  please  spar*  me 
an'  wait  —  wait  anutheh  day. 

Williams.  No,  Fm  er  business  man.  I  kin  sell  de 
house  fer  mo'  money  termorrer  but  I  hold's  to  my  wuhd 
ter  sell  it  to  you.  I  holds  to  it  an'  loses  money,  but  it 
falls  due  dis  day  an'  night  an'  I  won'  stretch  it  one  jump 
er  my  hea't. 

Lucy.     You   know  —  de   bank  —  ain't   open  — 

Williams.  Sign  de  check  fer  hit.  You  kin  do  dat, 
cain't  you  ? 

Lucy.     I  —  s'pose  —  I  —  kin. 

Williams.  Den  up  an'  do  hit.  Heah's  er  check,  all 
wrote  out  but  de  signin'.  [She  takes  the  check  he  pro- 
duces.] An'  heah's  one  er  dese  fountum  pins.  [She 
takes  the  -pen.]  Octobeh  fus'  —  pay  to  Zek'l  Williams  — 
eight  hunderd   dollahs.     Des  write   "Lucy   Sparrow." 


240     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

{She  mechanically  turns  to  do  so.\  Looks  easy,  sho'. 
But  de  law  allows  hit;  dis  writin'  out  money.  [He 
pauses,  then  adds  impressively.]  Dat  is,  ef  you  got  de 
money  in  de  bank.  Co'se  ef  de  money  ain'  dah  an' 
you  writes  de  check  fer  hit  de  law  puts  you  in  State 
prism.  [She  stops  and  stares  at  him.  The  pen  jails 
from  her  hand  and  the  check  flutters  to  the  floor.]  What 
de  matteh  ?  You  wants  de  house,  don'  you  }  [Lucy's 
head  sinks.]     An'  you  got  de  money,  ain'  you .? 

Madison.  Dat's  de  question.  [He  comes  forzvard 
out  of  the  shadow.] 

Williams  [seemingly  observing  Madison  for  the  first 
time  during  the  evening].  Why,  heighyo,  Madison.  I 
bin  lookin'  fer  you  dis  very  evenin'.     Whah  you  bin  ? 

Madison.     Bin  home. 

Williams.  Sho'ly  not,  Madison,  sho'ly  not  all 
evenin'  ?     Has  you  ? 

Madison.     Yes. 

Williams.  Well,  ain'  dat  de  whu'lygig  ?  I  wuz 
lookin'  fer  you  at  Pratt's  sto'  at  eight  o'clock  an'  day 
say  you  jes'  lef  dah.     You  wuz  dah,  weren't  you  ^ 

Madison.     No,  suh. 

Williams.  Well,  dere  I  am  fool  agin.  An'  who  you 
think  done  fool  me  ? 

Madison.     Dunno. 

Williams.  Well  suh,  'tweren't  no  one  but  —  [He 
pauses  a  moment.]     Wilson   Byrd. 

Lucy.     Byrd  !     [Springing  to  her  feet  with  the  shock.] 

Williams  [after  watching  the  tzvo  a  moment].  So 
you  ain'  got  de  money  no  mo',  is  you  ^  [They  are  speech- 
less before  him.]  I  knows  you  ain'  ca'se  I  knows  who 
has  got  hit. 

Madison  [involuntarily].     Who  ? 


THE   RIDER  OF  DRE.IMS  24 1 

Williams.  I  has.  [He  observes  them  and  then 
chuckles  softly.]  I  has  de  money  an'  de  bargum's  closed, 
far  de  goods  is  bin  dehvered  an'  dey're  right  in  dis  room 
in  dat  corner.  One  guitar  at  eight  hunderd  dollahs. 
Insterments  comes  higher'n  what  dey  did  once  but  you 
would  have  it  an'  now  you  got  it  an'  everybody's 
fixed. 

Madison  [groaning  and  bending  over  the  table].     Oh  ! 

Williams.  Yassuh,  de  man  what  buys  guitars  at 
dat  price  su'tinly  plays  on  de  golden  strings.  Eight 
hunderd  fer  one  guitar  makes  'm  mighty  near  twenty 
thousand  doUehs  er  dozen.  De  cos'  er  livin'  is  shore 
gone  up  but  ef  you  mus'  you  mus'. 

Madison.     Oh ! 

Williams.  Well,  I  cain'  stay  heah,  I  got  er  be  amblin' 
on.  I  much  erblige  ter  you  to  mek  youah  plans  to  move 
out  er  heah  fo'  I  got  ter  sell  de  house  befo'  sundown. 
Well,  so  long,  an'  I  hopes  you  gits  all  de  good  er  youah 
high  price  music.  [He  turns  again  with  his  feeble  old 
mans  step  tozvard  the  doorzvay,  putting  on  his  hat.]  I 
wish   y'all   good   evenm'. 

Madison  [moving  toward  him  with  the  threatening 
determination  of  despair].  Say,  I've  got  to  have  dat 
money.  I  sees  red.  I'm  gone  bad  an'  I'll  kill  befo'  I'll 
lose  hit. 

[Williams  suddenly  turns  with  a  swiftness  and  agility 
astounding  in  so  old  a  man.  Starting  forward  he  con- 
fronts Madison  with  such  dominance  and  fire  that  he  seems 
suddenly  to  tower.] 

Williams.  You  kill  me!  You  tek  money  away 
from  me!  Why,  you  po'  grain  er  chafF,  you  don'  know 
me.  I'm  a  king  in  my  own  right.  I  got  ways  an' 
means  er  pertecktin'  myse'f  dat  you  don'  even  dream 

R 


242     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

on  an'  I  don'  need  to  lay  a  fingeh  on  you  to  do  hit. 
Furdermo'  I  could  brain  you  wif  dis  stick  but  ef  you 
cross  me  I  won'  be  dat  easy  on  you.  Ef  you  don'  wan' 
wuss'n  dat  don'  cross  me  no  furder  er  youah  troubles'll 
begin  fer  fa'r. 

Lucy.     Oh,  please  don'  lay  nothin'  on  him. 

Williams,  You  po'  sufFerin'  gal,  I  won'  lay  nothin' 
onto  'im  but  I'm  to  tek  sumpin'  ofF'n  you.  I'm  goin' 
tek  de  burding  er  dish  yere  pack  er  laziness  off'n  you. 
An'  fus'  I  wants  ter  show  you  dish  yere  piece  er  papeh. 
[He  produces  a  folded  document  and  opens  it.]  Does  you 
know  who  wrote  it .''  Answeh  me.  [He  shoves  the  paper 
under  Madison's  eye.] 

Madison.     It  looks  like  dat  Wilson  Byrd's  writin'. 

Williams.  Yassuh,  an'  what's  mo'  it  is  dat  man's 
writin'.  It's  his  confession  dat  he  fo'ge  Lucy  Sparrow's 
name.  I  saw  dat  man  steal  my  guitar  an'  follered  him 
home.  Dah  I  grabbed  him,  dah  I  foun'  de  purse  wif 
Lucy's  name  inside  an'  dah  I  made  dat  thief  write  out 
his  confession.  Knowed  so  much  of  his  meanness  al- 
ready dat  he  had  to  do  hit.  An' now  I  owns  you.  Does 
you   undehstan'   dat }     Answeh   me. 

Madison.     Yas    suh,    no    sub. 

Williams.  Well,  I'll  take'n  cl'ar  up  de  myst'ry  fer 
you.  I  got  dis  confession  outer  Byrd  an'  got  other 
things  ter  prove  hit  an'  I  kin  bring  him  an'  you  too,  bofe 
befo'   de  gran'  jury. 

Lucy.  Oh,  my  sweet  Jesus,  save  him.  {The  old 
man  stands  zvatching  the  tzvo  before  him  for  some  time  in 
silence.  LvcY  falls  on  her  knees  before  him.]  Oh,  don't 
sen'  Madison  to  de  lawyers. 

Williams.     No,  Lucy,  I  ain't  wishful  ter. 

Lucy.     You  won't  ? 


THE  RIDER  OF  DREAMS  243 

Williams.  IN^ebbe  not.  But  fus',  les'  put  all  dis 
talk  aside  dat  I  bin  talkin'  up  to  now.  I  bin  puttin' 
on  an'  'pretendin'  in  ordeh  ter  try  you  bofe  an'  sif  de 
chafF  from  grain  in  you.  I  des  bin  playin'  vvif  you  ter 
see  how  good  you  is  an'  how  ornry  dish  yere  man  er 
youahn  is.  Yit  I'll  take  an'  give  him  er  chance  even 
so,  an'  I'll  pluck  him  f'um  de  bu'nin'  ef  he  follers  de  paf 
I  p'ints  out  ter  him.  But  we  all  got  ter  have  cl'ar 
unde'stan'in'  'bout  dat.  Fus'  an'  fo'  mos'  youah  money 
is  all  safe  wif  me.     De  house  is  youah'n. 

Lucy.     You  means  you  sell  it  fer  de  money. 

Williams.  In  co'se.  You  didn't  speck  I'd  steal, 
too,  like  a  w'ite  man,  did  you  ?  I'll  fetch  you  de  deeds 
fo'  hit  fus'  thing  in  de  mo'nm'. 

Lucy.  Oh,  fu'give  me,  I  was  all  mix  up.  But  you 
won'  sen'  Madison  to  de  gran'  jury  neitheh  ? 

Williams.     I  say  I  ain'  honin'  ter. 

Lucy.     Oh,  my  Makeh,  I  thank  Thee  fo'  Thy  mercy. 

Williams.  But  I  shorely  goin'  to  put  dis  man  er 
youah'n  th'oo  er  tes'  ter  see  whetheh  he's  fitten  ter 
keep  out  er  jail.     Madison,  will  tek  er  tes'  ? 

Madison  [humbly].     Yassuh.     What  is  it  ^ 

Williams.     A  guitar. 

Madison.     A  guitar ! 

Williams.  Yassuh,  dat's  hit,  no  mo'  ner  no  less. 
I'm  goin'  give  you  dat  guitar  —  but  —  dere's  suhtinly 
goin'  to  be  a  string  tied  to  it.  You  kin  take  dat  guitar, 
but  you  got  to  make  somethin'  outer  yourself  wif  her 
or  back  she'll  come  to  me.  You  kin  give  lessons  an' 
learn  folks  music  or  you  kin  write  down  de  music  you 
make,  but  you  got  to  do  somethin'  wif  it  fer  Lucy. 
You  got  to  wake  up  or  I'll  take  de  guitar.  Which'U 
it  be  ?     Make  youah   choice. 


244     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Madison  [crushed].     I'll  —  keep  de  guitar. 

Williams.  An'  dat  ain'  all.  You  got  ter  quit 
runnin'  wif  Byrd  an'  Byrd  wif  you,  you  got  ter  be  a 
better  husban'  an'  you  got  to  min'  everything  Lucy 
tells  you.     Will  you  do  hit  \ 

Madison.     Yassuh. 

Williams.  An'  you  ain'  much  of  er  temp'unce  man 
neitheh,   is  you,   Madison  .'' 

Madison.     I's  a  temp'unce  man  but  I  ain'  no  frantic. 

Williams.  Well,  sub,  you  got  ter  jine  de  frantics 
now.  No  dram  drinking  at  all.  Will  you  quit  hit  er 
go  ter  jail  ? 

Madison.     I'll  quit. 

Williams.  Well,  dat's  on'y  a  promise  but  I'll  shore 
hoi'  you  to  hit  er  put  you  behin'  de  bahs.  Why,  look 
heah,  man,  does  you  know  how  you  stan'  pon  top  er 
dis  yu'th  ?  Does  you  know  how  you  liken  to  er  tree  .? 
S'posin'  sumpm'  wif  er  cool  eye  like  er  tree  could  see 
you  an  talk.  I  cam'  jedge  you  ca'm  but  er  tree  could. 
Tree  would  look  at  you  and  say,  "Does  dat  'ere  man 
wu'k?"  Win'  'ud  whispeh,  "No."  "Do  he  eat.?" 
"Yas'n  git  fat,"  respon'  de  win'.  "Who  shines  on 
him.?"  "His  wife,"  win' say.  "Do  he  put  fo'th  flower 
an'  bless  de  wife  .?"  say  de  tree.  "No."  "Do  he  give 
shade  an'  shelteh  ter  de  wife?"  say  de  tree.  "No." 
"Well,  chop'm  down  an'  bu'n  him  befo'  he  rots,"  say 
de  tree.  "Dat's  all."  But  mebby  I  kin  mek  mo'  of 
him  dan  dat  an'  so  I'll  try  prunin'  him  an'  graftin'  some 
good  labeh  onto  him.  An'  I  kin'  er  think  hit'll  sabe 
him  yit.  Well'm,  I  must  be  er  goin'  now.  Hit's  late 
an'  I  mus'  git  my  res'  fer  I  got  to  do  a  lot  er  bossin' 
termorrer  an'  dat's  allers  ha'd  fer  me.  Lucy,  I'll  fetch 
you  de  deeds    ter  de   house   befo'  nine    termorrer  an' 


THE  RIDER  OF  DREAMS  245 

Madison,  you  kin  repo't  to  me  at  eight  o'clock  sha'p 
an'  give  my  little  boy  a  lesson  on  de  guitar.  You'll 
be  dah,  won't  you  ? 

Madison  [meekly].     Yassuh. 

Williams.     Ready  to  whu'l  in  an'  scratch. 

Madison.     Yassuh. 

Williams.  Well,  den,  les'  all  shek  ban's  on  de  noo 
nes'  an'  de  noo  aig.  [They  shake  hands.  He  puts  on 
his  hat  and  turns  to  the  door.] 

An'  dat  remin's  me,  Lucy,  you  better  tell  Madison  to 
play  on  dat  guitar  a  plenty  tonight  because  he'll  need 
music  fer  to  stan'  up  undeh  all  de  lessons  I'm  goin'  to 
lay  onto  him.  Well,  I  wish  you  good  night.  I'm  er 
gittin'  kin'er  ole  an'  I  cain'  stay  up  late  no  mo'  without 
bein'  crosser  in  de  mornm'.  Good  night  den  an'  far' 
you  well  bofe.  Eight  o'clock,  Madison.  Good  night. 
[He  goes,  closing  the  door  after  hivi.  The  pair  stand 
silent  for  a  niomejit,  Madison  zvith  hanging  head  and  in 
deep  dejection.] 

Lucy  [throwing  her  arms  around  him].  Oh,  my 
husban',  I'll  pray  fer  3^ou.  Don'  sorrer  now\  Git 
youah  res'  tonight.  We  kin  be  hones'  now.  We've 
got  de  house  at  las'  an  heah's  de  guitar. 

Madison.  Yassuh,  heah's  de  guitar.  [He  plays  it 
and  fondles  it.  Then  his  face  assumes  again  its  melan- 
choly look.] 

Lucy.     What's  de  trouble  ? 

Madison.  I  don'  undehstan'  dis  worl'.  If  I  wants 
to  make  music  why  cain't  folks  lemme  alone  to  make 
music  ?  If  I  dream  a  fine  dream  why  is  it  I  always 
wake  up  ?  Looks  to  me  like  somebody's  always  tryin' 
to  crowd  me  out  an'  git  me  in  a  tight  place. 

Lucy.     You  wuz  doin'  all  right  till  you  got  mix  up 


246     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

wif  dat  white  man  an'  his  tricks.     De  trouble  wuz  dat 
dis  dream  of  youahs  wuzn't  a  good  dream. 

Madison.  Yes,  but  not  all  of  my  dreams  is  bad 
ones.  All  I  wants  is  room  to  dream  my  good  dreams 
an'  make  my  own  music. 

CURTAIN 


SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

BY 

AUGUSTA  GREGORY 


1  Copyright,  in  United  States,  1919,  by  Augusta  Gregory.  Re- 
printed by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and 
London.     Acting  rights  in  the  hands  of  Samuel  French,  New  York. 


In  this  play  is  found  Irish  idiom  that  should  stand 
the  criticism  of  George  Moore.  If,  as  he  says,  Lady 
Gregory  has  written  plays  in  which  the  language  is 
merely  sprinkled  with  rural  speech,  surely  "Spreading 
the  News"  is  not  one  of  them.  This  play  has  the 
living  speech  which  Yeats  attributes  to  this  Irish 
dramatist,  and  which  Moore  says  is  lost  to  modern 
English  through  the  decadent  educated  classes. 

The  value  of  the  play  lies  in  the  intimate  study  of 
the  characters.  They  live  on  the  printed  page  or  on 
the  stage.  In  "Seven  Short  Plays,"  from  which  volume 
this  play  is  taken,  and  "New  Comedies,"  the  char- 
acters show  a  primitive  strength  together  with  what 
Edward  Storer  has  called  the  talk  of  "intoxicated 
poets."  Their  speech  is  racy  in  expression  and  quaint 
in  metaphor,  abounding  in  charming  images  of  fun 
and  fancy. 


SPREADING    THE    NEWS 


Persons 

Bartley  Fallon  James  Ryan 

Mrs.  Fallon  Mrs.  Tarpey 

Jack  Smith  Mrs.  Tully 

Shawn  Early  ' ,      Jo  Muldoon,  a  policeman 

Tim  Casey  A  Removable  Magistrate 

Scene  :  The  outskirts  of  a  fair.  An  apple  stall, 
Mrs.  Tarpey  sitting  at  It.  Magistrate  and  Police- 
man enter. 

Magistrate.  So  that  is  the  fair  green.  Cattle 
and  sheep  and  mud.  No  system.  What  a  repulsive 
sight ! 

Policeman.     That  is  so,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of  dis- 
order in  this  place  .? 

Policeman.     There  is. 

Magistrate.     Common  assault  ? 

Policeman.     It's  common  enough. 

Magistrate.     Agrarian  crime,  no  doubt } 

Policeman.     That  is  so. 

Magistrate.  Boycotting  ?  Maiming  of  cattle .? 
Firing  into  houses  ? 

Policeman.     There  was  one  time,  and  there  might 

be  again. 

249 


250    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Magistrate.  That  is  bad.  Does  it  go  any  farther 
than  that  ? 

Policeman.     Far  enough,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  Homicide,  then !  This  district  has 
been  shamefully  neglected !  I  will  change  all  that. 
When  I  was  in  the  Andaman  Islands  my  system  never 
failed.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  change  all  that.  What  has 
that  woman  on  her  stall  ? 

Policeman.     Apples  mostly  —  and  sweets. 

Magistrate.  Just  see  if  there  are  any  unlicensed 
goods  underneath  —  spirits  or  the  like.  We  had  eva- 
sions of  the  salt  tax  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

Policeman  {sniffing  cautiously  and  upsetting  a  heap 
of  apples].     I  see  no  spirits  here  —  or  salt. 

Magistrate  [to  Mrs.  Tarpey].  Do  you  know  this 
town  well,  my  good  woman  .? 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [holding  out  some  apples].  A  penny 
the  half-dozen,  your  honor  ? 

Policeman  [shouting].  The  gentleman  is  asking 
do  you  know  the  town  !     He's  the  new  magistrate ! 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rising  and  ducking].  Do  I  know  the 
town  ?     I  do,  to  be  sure. 

Magistrate  [shouting].     What  is  its  chief  business  .'' 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Business,  is  it  ?  What  business 
would  the  people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one 
another's  business  ? 

Magistrate.     I  mean  what  trade  have  they  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  trade  at  all  but  to  be  talk- 
ing. 

Magistrate.     I  shall  learn  nothing  here. 

[James  Ryan  comes  in,  pipe  in  mouth.  Seeing 
Magistrate  he  retreats  quickly,  taking  pipe  from 
mouth.] 


SPREADING    THE  NEWS  25 1 

Magistrate.  The  smoke  from  that  man's  pipe 
had  a  greenish  look;  he  ma}'  be  growing  unhcensed 
tobacco  at  home.  I  wish  I  had  brought  my  telescope 
to  this  district.  Come  to  the  post-office;  I  will  tele- 
graph for  it.  I  found  it  very  useful  in  the  Andaman 
Islands. 

[Magistrate  and  Policeman  go  out  left.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Bad  luck  to  Jo  Muldoon,  knock- 
ing my  apples  this  way  and  that  way.  [Begins  ar- 
ranging them.]  Showing  ofF  he  was  to  the  new  magis- 
trate. 

[Enter  Bartley  Fallon  and  Mrs.  Fallon.] 

Bartley.  Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce 
country  to  be  living  in.  But  I'm  thinking  if  I  went 
to  America  it's  long  ago  the  day  I'd  be  dead  ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.     So  you  might,  indeed. 

[She  puts  her  basket  on  a  barrel  and  begins  putting 
parcels  in  it,  taking  them  from  under  her  cloak.] 

Bartley.  And  it's  a  great  expense  for  a  poor  man 
to  be  buried  in  America. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Never  fear,  Bartley  Fallon,  but 
I'll  give  you  a  good  burying  the  day  you'll  die. 

Bartley.  Maybe  it's  yourself  will  be  buried  in 
the  graveyard  of  Cloonmara  before  me,  Mary  Fallon, 
and  I  myself  that  will  be  dying  unbeknownst  some 
night,  and  no  one  a-near  me.  And  the  cat  itself  may 
be  gone  straying  through  the  country,  and  the  mice 
squeahng  over  the  quilt. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  dying.  It 
might  be  twenty  years  you'll  be  living  yet. 

Bartley  [ivith  a  deep  sigh].  I'm  thinking  if  I'll 
be  living  at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  it's  a  very  old  man 
I'll  be  then ! 


252     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESEXTATIJ'E  AUTHORS 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [turns  and  sees  them].  Good  morrow, 
Bartley  Fallon ;  good  morrow,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Well, 
Bartley,  you'll  find  no  cause  for  complaining  to-day; 
they  are  all  saying  it  was  a  good  fair. 

Bartley  [raising  his  voice].  It  was  not  a  good  fair, 
Mrs.  Tarpey.  It  was  a  scattered  sort  of  a  fair.  If 
we  didn't  expect  more,  we  got  less.  That's  the  way 
with  me  always;  whatever  I  have  to  sell  goes  down 
and  whatever  I  have  to  buy  goes  up.  If  there's  ever 
any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world,  it's  on  myself 
it  pitches,  like  a  flock  of  crows  on  seed  potatoes. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  misfortunes 
and  listen  to  Jack  Smith  that  is  coming  the  way,  and 
he  singing. 

[Voice  of  JACK  Smith  heard  singing.] 

I  thought,  my  first  love, 

There'd  be  but  one  house  between  you  and  me, 

And  I  thought  I  would  find 

Yourself  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee. 

Over  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 

Till  I  came  to  the  side 

Of  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man  ! 

[Jack  Smith  comes  in;  he  is  a  red-haired  man,  and  is 
carrying  a  hayfork.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  That  should  be  a  good  song  if  I 
had  my  hearing. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [shouting].  It's  "The  Red-haired 
Man's  Wife." 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  I  know  it  well.  That's  the  song 
that  has  a  skin  on  it ! 

[She  turns  her  hack  to  them  and  goes  on  arranging 
her  apples.] 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  253 

Mrs.  Fallon.     Where's  herself,  Jack  Smith  ? 

Jack  Smith.  She  was  delayed  with  her  washing; 
bleaching  the  clothes  on  the  hedge  she  is,  and  she 
daren't  leave  them,  with  all  the  tinkers  that  do  be 
passing  to  the  fair.  It  isn't  to  the  fair  I  came  myself, 
but  up  to  the  Five  Acre  Meadow  I'm  going,  where 
I  have  a  contract  for  the  hay.  We'll  get  a  share  of 
it  into  tramps  to-day.  [He  lays  dozvn  hayfork  and 
lights  his  pipe.] 

Bartley.  You  will  not  get  it  into  tramps  to-day. 
The  rain  will  be  down  on  it  by  evening,  and  on  myself 
too.  It's  seldom  I  ever  started  on  a  journey  but  the 
rain  would  come  down  on  me  before  I'd  find  any  place 
of  shelter. 

Jack  Smith.  If  it  didn't  itself,  Bartley,  it  is  my 
belief  you  would  carry  a  leaky  pail  on  your  head  in 
place  of  a  hat,  the  way  you'd  not  be  without  some 
cause  of  complaining. 

[A  voice  heard,  "Go  on,  go  on  02it  0'  that.     Go  on.,  I  say.'"] 

Jack  Smith.  Look  at  that  young  mare  of  Pat  Ry- 
an's that  is  backing  into  Shaughnessy's  bullocks  with 
the  dint  of  the  crowd  !  Don't  be  daunted,  Pat,  I'll 
give  you  a  hand  with  her.  [He  goes  out,  leaving  his  hay- 
fork.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  time  for  ourselves  to  be  going 
home.  I  have  all  I  bought  put  in  the  basket.  Look 
at  there.  Jack  Smith's  hayfork  he  left  after  him  !  He'll 
be  wanting  it.  [Calls.]  Jack  Smith  !  Jack  Smith  !  — 
He's  gone  through  the  crowd  —  hurry  after  him, 
Bartley,  he'll  be  wanting  it. 

Bartley.  I'll  do  that.  This  is  no  safe  place  to 
be  leaving  it.  [He  takes  up  fork  azvkzvardly  and  upsets 
the  basket.]     Look  at  that  now  !     If  there  is  any  basket 


254     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

in  the  fair  upset,  it    must   be   our  own    basket !     {He 
goes  out  to  right.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Get  out  of  that !  It  is  your  own 
fault,  it  is.  Talk  of  misfortunes  and  misfortunes  will 
come.  Glory  be  !  Look  at  my  new  egg-cups  rolling 
in  every  part  —  and  my  two  pound  of  sugar  with  the 
paper  broke  — 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [turning  from  stall].  God  help  us, 
Mrs.  Fallon,  what  happened  your  basket? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  himself  that  knocked  it  down, 
bad  manners,  to  him  [putting  things  up].  My  grand 
sugar  that's  destroyed,  and  he'll  not  drink  his  tea  with- 
out it.  I  had  best  go  back  to  the  shop  for  more,  much 
good  may  it  do  him  ! 

[Enter  Tim  Casey.] 

Tim  Casey.  Where  is  Bartley  Fallon,  Mrs.  Fallon? 
I  want  a  word  \\\t\\  him  before  he'll  leave  the  fair.  I 
was  afraid  he  might  have  gone  home  by  this,  for  he's  a 
temperate  man. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  I  wish  he  did  go  home !  It'd  be 
best  for  me  if  he  went  home  straight  from  the  fair 
green,  or  if  he  never  came  with  me  at  all !  Where  is 
he,  is  it  ?  He's  gone  up  the  road  [jerks  elbozv]  follow- 
ing Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork.  [She  goes  out  to 
left.] 

Tim  Casey.  Following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork! 
Did  ever  any  one  hear  the  like  of  that?  [Shouts.] 
Did  you  hear  that  news,  Mrs.  Tarpey  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     I  heard  no  news  at  all. 

Tim  Casey.  Some  dispute  I  suppose  it  was  that 
rose  between  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon,  and  it 
seems  Jack  made  off,  and  Bartley  is  following  him  with 
a  hayfork  1 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  255 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Is  he  now?  Well,  that  was  quick 
work  !  It's  not  ten  minutes  since  the  two  of  them  were 
here>  Bartley  going  home  and  Jack  going  to  the  Five 
Acre  Meadow;  and  I  had  my  apples  to  settle  up, 
that  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police  had  scattered,  and  when  I 
looked  round  again  Jack  Smith  was  gone,  and  Bartley 
Fallon  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Fallon's  basket  upset,  and 
all  in  It  strewed  upon  the  ground  —  the  tea  here  — 
the  two  pound  of  sugar  there  —  the  egg-cups  there  — 
Look,  now,  what  a  great  hardship  the  deafness  puts  upon 
me,  that  I  didn't  hear  the  commincement  of  the  fight ! 
Wait  till  I  tell  James  Ryan  that  I  see  below;  he  is  a 
neighbor  of  Bartley's,  it  would  be  a  pity  if  he  wouldn't 
hear  the  news  ! 

[She  goes  out.     Enter  Shawn  Early  and  Mrs.  Tully.] 

Tim  Casey.  Listen,  Shawn  Early !  Listen,  Mrs. 
Tully,  to  the  news  !  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon 
had  a  falling  out,  and  Jack  knocked  Mrs.  Fallon's 
basket  into  the  road,  and  Bartley  made  an  attack  on 
him  with  a  hayfork,  and  away  with  Jack,  and  Bartley 
after  hmi.     Look  at  the  sugar  here  yet  on  the  road  ! 

Shawn  Early.  Do  you  tell  me  so .?  Well,  that's 
a  queer  thing,  and  Bartley  Fallon  so  quiet  a  man  ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all.  I  would 
never  think  well  of  a  man  that  would  have  that  sort 
of  a  moldering  look.  It's  likely  he  has  overtaken  Jack 
by  this. 

[Enter  James  Ryan  and  Mrs.  Tarpey.] 

James  Ryan.  That  is  great  news  Mrs.  Tarpey 
was  telhng  me!  I  suppose  that's  what  brought  the 
police  and  the  magistrate  up  this  way.  I  was  wonder- 
ing to  see  them  in  it  awhile  ago. 

Shawn   Early.     The  police   after   them  ^,     Bartley 


256     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Fallon  must  have  injured  Jack  so.  They  wouldn't 
meddle  in  a  fight  that  was  only  for  show  ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  Why  wouldn't  he  injure  him  ?  There 
was  many  a  man  killed  with  no  more  of  a  weapon  than 
a  hayfork. 

James  Ryan.  Wait  till  I  run  north  as  far  as  Kelly's 
bar  to  spread  the  news  !     [He  goes  out.] 

Tim  Casey.  I'll  go  tell  Jack  Smith's  first  cousin 
that  is  standing  there  south  of  the  church  after  selling 
his  lambs.     [Goes  out.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  I'll  go  telling  a  few  of  the  neighbors 
I  see  beyond- to  the  west.     [Goes  out.] 

Shawn  Early.  I'll  give  word  of  it  beyond  at  the 
east  of  the  green.  [Is  going  out  when  Mrs.  Tarpey 
seizes  hold  of  him.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stop  a  minute,  Shawn  Early,  and 
tell  me  did  you  see  red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary, 
in  any  place  ^. 

Shawn  Early.  I  did.  At  her  own  house  she  was, 
drying  clothes  on  the  hedge  as  I  passed. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     What  did  you  say  she  was  doing  ^ 

Shawn  Early  [breaking  away].  Laying  out  a  sheet 
on  the  hedge.     [He  goes.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Laying  out  a  sheet  for  the  dead  ! 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  !  Jack  Smith  dead,  and 
his  wife  laying  out  a  sheet  for  his  burying!  [Calls 
out.]  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before,  Shawn 
Early  "^  Isn't  the  deafness  the  great  hardship .? 
Half  the  world  might  be  dead  without  me  knowing 
of  it  or  getting  word  of  it  at  all !  [She  sits  down  and 
rocks  herself.]  O  my  poor  Jack  Smith  !  To  be  going 
to  his  work  so  nice  and  so  hearty,  and  to  be  left  stretched 
on  the  ground  in  the  full  light  of  the  day ! 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  257 

[Enter  Tim  Casey.] 

Tim  Casey.  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Tarpey .?  What 
happened  since  ^ 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     O  my  poor  Jack  Smith  ! 

Tim  Casey.     Did  Bartley  overtake  him  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     O  the  poor  man  ! 

Tim  Casey.     Is  it  killed  he  is  } 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stretched  in  the  Five  Acre 
Meadow ! 

Tim  Casey.     Mercy  on  us  !     Is  that  a  fact  .'* 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Without  the  rites  of  the  Church  or  a 
ha'porth  ! 

Tim  Casey.     Who  was  telling  you  .'' 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  And  the  wife  laying  out  a  sheet 
for  his  corpse.  [Sits  up  and  wipes  her  eyes.]  I  suppose 
they'll  wake  him  the  same  as  another  '^ 

[Enter  Mrs.  Tully,  Shawn  Early,  <3«£/ James  Ryan.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  There  is  great  talk  about  this  work 
in  every  quarter  of  the  fair. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Ochone !  Cold  and  dead.  And 
myself  maybe  the  last  he  was  speaking  to  ! 

James  Ryan.  The  Lord  save  us !  Is  it  dead  he 
is.? 

Tim  Casey.  Dead  surely,  and  the  wife  getting  pro- 
vision for  the  wake. 

Shawn  Early.  Well,  now,  hadn't  Bartley  Fallon 
great  venom  in  him  .'' 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  may  be  sure  he  had  some  cause. 
Why  would  he  have  made  an  end  of  him  if  he  had  not  ? 
[7*0  Mrs.  Tarpey,  raising  her  voice.]  What  was  it 
rose  the  dispute  at  all,  Mrs.  Tarpey  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     Not  a  one  of  me  knows.     The  last 
I  saw  of  them,  Jack   Smith  was  standing  there,  and 
s 


258     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Bartley   Fallon   was   standing   there,   quiet   and   easy, 
and  he  listening  to  "The  Red-haired  Man's  Wife." 

Mrs.  Tully.  Do  you  hear  that,  Tim  Casey.? 
Do  you  hear  that,  Shawn  Early  and  James  Ryan.? 
Bartley  Fallon  was  here  this  morning  listening  to  red 
Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary  that  was !  Listen- 
ing to  her  and  whispering  with  her !  It  was  she 
started  the  fight  so  ! 

Shawn  Early.  She  must  have  followed  him  from 
her  own  house.     It  is  likely  some  person  roused  him. 

Tim  Casey.  I  never  knew,  before,  Bartley  Fallon 
was  great  with  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Mrs.  Tully.  How  would  you  know  it .?  Sure 
it's  not  in  the  streets  they  would  be  calling  it.  If 
Mrs.  Fallon  didn't  know  of  it,  and  if  I  that  have  the  next 
house  to  them  didn't  know  of  it,  and  if  Jack  Smith 
didn't  himself  know  of  it,  it  is  not  likely  you  would 
know  of  it,  Tim  Casey. 

Shawn  Early.  Let  Bartley  Fallon  take  charge  of 
her  from  this  out  so,  and  let  him  provide  for  her.  It 
is  little  pity  she  will  get  from  any  person  in  this  parish. 

Tim  Casey.  How  can  he  take  charge  of  her  ?  Sure 
he  has  a  wife  of  his  own.  Sure  you  don't  thmk  he'd 
turn  souper  and  marry  her  in  a  Protestant  church  .? 

James  Ryan.  It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  marry 
her  if  he  brought  her  to  America. 

Shawn  Early.  With  or  without  Kitty  Keary, 
believe  me  it  is  for  America  he's  making  at  this  minute. 
I  saw  the  new  magistrate  and  Jo  Muldoon  of  the 
police  going  into  the  post-office  as  I  came  up  —  there 
was  hurry  on  them  —  you  may  be  sure  it  was  to  tele- 
graph they  went,  the  way  he'll  be  stopped  in  the  docks 
at  Queenstown ! 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  259 

Mrs.  Tully.  It's  likely  Kitty  Keary  is  gone  with 
him,  and  not  minding  a  sheet  or  a  wake  at  all.  The 
poor  man,  to  be  deserted  by  his  own  wife,  and  the 
breath'hardly  gone  out  yet  from  his  body  that  is  lying 
bloody  in  the  field  !     [Enter  Mrs.  Fallon.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  is  it  the  whole  of  the  town  is 
talking  about }  And  what  is  it  you  yourselves  are 
talking  about  ?  Is  it  about  my  man  Bartley  Fallon 
you  are  talking  t  Is  it  lies  about  him  you  are  telling, 
saying  that  he  went  killing  Jack  Smith  .?  My  grief 
that  ever  he  came  mto  this  place  at  all ! 

James  Ryan.  Be  easy  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Sure 
there  is  no  one  at  all  in  the  w^hole  fair  but  is  sorry  for 
you  ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sorry  for  me,  is  it .?  Why  would 
any  one  be  sorry  for  me  ^  Let  you  be  sorry  for  your- 
selves, and  that  there  may  be  shame  on  you  for  ever 
and  at  the  day  of  judgment,  for  the  words  you  are  say- 
ing and  the  lies  you  are  telling  to  take  away  the  char- 
acter of  my  poor  man,  and  to  take  the  good  name  off  of 
him,  and  to  drive  him  to  destruction  !  That  is  what 
you  are  doing ! 

Shawn  Early.  Take  comfort  now,  Mrs.  Fallon. 
The  police  are  not  so  smart  as  they  think.  Sure  he 
might  give  them  the  slip  yet,  the  same  as  Lynchehaun. 

Mrs.  Tully.  If  they  do  get  him,  and  if  they  do 
put  a  rope  around  his  neck,  there  is  no  one  can  say  he 
does  not  deserve  it ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Is  that  what  you  are  saying,  Bridget 
Tully,  and  is  that  what  you  think  .?  I  tell  you  it's 
too  much  talk  you  have,  making  yourself  out  to  be 
such  a  great  one,  and  to  be  running  down  every  re- 
spectable person  !     A  rope,  is  it }     It  isn't  much  of  a 


26o    SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

rope  was  needed  to  tie  up  your  own  furniture  the  day 
you  came  into  Martin  Tully's  house,  and  you  never 
bringing  as  much  as  a  blanket,  or  a  penny,  or  a  suit  of 
clothes  with  you,  and  I  myself  bringing  Seventy 
pounds  and  two  feather  beds.  And  now  you  are  stiffer 
than  a  woman  would  have  a  hundred  pounds  !  It  is 
too  much  talk  the  whole  of  you  have.  A  rope,  is  it.? 
I  tell  you  the  whole  of  this  town  is  full  of  liars  and 
schemers  that  would  hang  you  up  for  half  a  glass  of 
whiskey.  [Turning  to  go.]  People  they  are  you  wouldn't 
believe  as  much  as  daylight  from  without  you'd  get 
up  to  have  a  look  at  it  yourself.  Killing  Jack  Smith 
indeed  !  Where  are  you  at  all,  Bartley,  till  I  bring 
you  out  of  this .''  My  nice,  quiet  little  man !  My 
decent  comrade !  He  that  is  as  kind  and  as  harmless 
as  an  innocent  beast  of  the  field  !  He'll  be  doing  no 
harm  at  all  if  he'll  shed  the  blood  of  some  of  you  after 
this  day's  work  !  That  much  would  be  no  harm  at 
all.  [Calls  out.]  Bartley !  Bartley  Fallon !  Where 
are  you  .?  Bartley  Fallon  !  [Going  out.]  Did  any  one 
see  Bartley  Fallon  .?     [All  turn  to  look  after  her.] 

James  Ryan.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  believe  any  such 
a  thing,  God  help  her  ! 

[Enter  Bartley  Fallon  from  right,  carrying  hayfork.] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  often  said  to  myself,  if 
there  is  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world, 
it  is  on  myself  it  is  sure  to  come ! 

[All  turn  round  and  face  him.] 

Bartley.  To  be  going  about  with  this  fork,  and  to 
find  no  one  to  take  it,  and  no  place  to  leave  it  down, 
and  I  wanting  to  be  gone  out  of  this.  —  Is  that  you, 
Shawn  Early  ?  [Holds  out  fork.]  It's  well  I  met  you. 
You  have  no  call  to  be  leaving  the  fair  for  a  while  the 


SPREADING    THE  NEWS  261 

way  I  have,  and  how  can  I  go  till  I'm  rid  of  this  fork? 
Will  you  take  it  and  keep  it  until  such  time  as  Jack 
Smith  — 

Shawn  Early  [backing].  I  will  not  take  it,  Bart- 
ley  Fallon,  I'm  very  thankful  to  you  ! 

Bartley  [turning  to  apple  stall].  Look  at  it  now, 
Mrs.  Tarpey,  it  was  here  I  got  it;  let  me  thrust  it  in 
under  the  stall.  It  will  lie  there  safe  enough  and  no  one 
will  take  notice  of  it  until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith  — 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Take  your  fork  out  of  that  1  Is  it 
to  put  trouble  on  me  and  to  destroy  me  you  want? 
Putting  it  there  for  the  police  to  be  rooting  it  out  maybe. 
[Thrusts  him  hack.] 

Bartley.  That  is  a  very  unneighborly  thing  for 
you  to  do,  Mrs.  Tarpey.  Hadn't  I  enough  care  on  me 
with  that  fork  before  this,  running  up  and  down  with 
it  like  the  swinging  of  a  clock,  and  afeared  to  lay  it 
down  in  any  place!  I  wish  I  never  touched  it  or  med- 
dled with  it  at  all ! 

James  Ryan.     It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  you  ever  did. 

Bartley.  Will  you  yourself  take  it,  James  Ryan  ? 
You  were  always  a  neighborly  man. 

James  Ryan  [backing].  There  is  many  a  thing  I 
would  do  for  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  won't  do  that ! 

Shawn  Early.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  man  will  give 
you  any  help  or  any  encouragement  for  this  day's 
work.     If  it  was  something  agrarian  now  — 

Bartley.  If  no  one  at  all  will  take  it,  maybe  it's 
best  to  give  it  up  to  the  police. 

Tim  Casey.  There'd  be  a  welcome  for  it  with  them, 
surely !     [Laughter.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  it  is  to  the  police  Kitty  Keary 
herself  will  be  brought. 


262     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rocking  to  and  fro].  I  wonder  now 
who  will  take  the  expense  of  the  wake  for  poor  Jack 
Smith  ? 

Bartley,     The  wake  for  Jack  Smith  ! 

Tim  Casey.  Why  wouldn't  he  get  a  wake  as  well  as 
another  ?     Would  you  begrudge  him  that  much  ? 

Bartley.  Red  Jack  Smith  dead  !  Who  was  tell- 
ing you  .? 

Shawn  Early.  The  whole  town  knows  of  it  by 
this. 

Bartley.     Do  they  say  what  way  did  he  die  ? 

James  Ryan.  You  don't  know  that  yourself,  I 
suppose,  Bartley  Fallon  ?  You  don't  know  he  was 
followed  and  that  he  was  laid  dead  with  the  stab  of  a 
hayfork  ? 

Bartley.     The  stab  of  a  hayfork  ! 

Shawn  Early.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  that 
the  body  was  found  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow  ? 

Bartley.     The  Five  Acre  Meadow  ! 

Tim  Casey.  It  is  likely  you  don't  know  that  the 
police  are  after  the  man  that  did  it ! 

Bartley.     The  man  that  did  it ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  don't  know,  maybe,  that  he 
was  made  away  with  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary, 
his  wife  ? 

Bartley.     Kitty  Keary,  his  wife  ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  what  have  you  to  say  now, 
Bartley  Fallon  ? 

Bartley  [crossing  himself].  I  to  bring  that  fork 
here,  and  to  find  that  news  before  me!  It  is  much  if 
I  can  ever  stir  from  this  place  at  all,  or  reach  as  far  as 
the  road  ! 

Tjm   Casey.     Look,   boys,   at   the   new  magistrate, 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  263 

and  Jo  Muldoon  along  with  him  !     It's  best  for  us  to 
quit  this. 

Shawn  Early.  That  is  so.  It  is  best  not  to  be 
mixed  in  this  business  at  all. 

James  Ryan.  Bad  as  he  is,  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  an 
informer  against  any  man. 

[All  hurry  azvay  except  Mrs.  Tarpey,  zvho  remains 
behind  her  stall.      Enter  Magistrate  and  Policeman.] 

Magistrate.  I  knew  the  district  was  in  a  bad 
state,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  be  confronted  with  a 
murder  at  the  first  fair  I  came  to. 

Policeman.     I  am  sure  you  did  not,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  You  heard  the  same  story  from 
every  one  you  asked  ? 

Policeman.  The  same  story  —  or  if  it  was  not  al- 
together the  same,  anyway  it  was  no  less  than  the 
first  story. 

Magistrate.  What  is  that  man  doing?  He  is 
sitting  alone  with  a  hayfork.  He  has  a  guilty  look. 
The  murder  was  done  with  a  hayfork  ! 

Policeman  [in  a  zvhisper].  That's  the  very  man 
they  say  did  the  act;   Bartley  Fallon  himself! 

Magistrate.  He  must  have  found  escape  diflR- 
cult  —  he  is  trying  to  brazen  it  out.  A  convict  in  the 
Andaman  Islands  tried  the  same  game,  but  he  could 
not  escape  my  system !  Stand  aside  —  don't  go  far 
—  have  the  handcuflFs  ready.  [He  walks  up  to  Bart- 
ley, folds  his  arms,  and  stands  before  him.]  Here, 
my  man,  do  3'ou  know  anything  of  John  Smith  .? 

Bartley.     Of  John  Smith  !     Who  is  he,  now  r 

Policeman.     Jack  Smith,  sir  —  Red  Jack  Smith  ! 

Magistrate  [coming  a  step  nearer  and  tapping  him 
on  the  shoulder].     Where  is  Jack  Smith  .? 


264     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Bartley  [zvith  a  deep  sigh,  and  shaking  his  head 
slowly].     Where  is  he,  indeed? 

Magistrate.     What  have  you  to  tell  ? 

Bartley.  It  is  where  he  was  this  morning,  stand- 
ing in  this  spot,  singing  his  share  of  songs  —  no,  but 
hghting  his  pipe  —  scraping  a  match  on  the  sole  of 
his  shoe  — 

Magistrate.  I  ask  you,  for  the  third  time,  where 
is  he  ? 

Bartley.  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  that.  It  is  a  great 
mystery,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  of  any  man,  did  he  earn 
hatred  or  love. 

Magistrate.     Tell  me  all  you  know. 

Bartley.  All  that  I  know  —  Well,  there  are  the 
three  estates;  there  is  Limbo,  and  there  is  Purgatory, 
and  there  is  — 

Magistrate.  Nonsense  !  This  is  trifling  !  Get  to 
the  point. 

Bartley.  Maybe  you  don't  hold  with  the  clergy 
so  ^.  That  is  the  teaching  of  the  clergy.  Maybe 
you  hold  with  the  old  people.  It  is  what  they  do  be 
saying,  that  the  shadow  goes  wandering,  and  the  soul 
is  tired,  and  the  body  is  taking  a  rest  —  The  shadow! 
[Starts  up.]  I  was  nearly  sure  I  saw  Jack  Smith  not 
ten  minutes  ago  at  the  corner  of  the  forge,  and  I  lost 
him  again  —      Was  it  his  ghost  I  saw,  do  you  think  .'' 

Magistrate  [to  Policeman].  Conscience-struck  I 
He  will  confess  all  now ! 

Bartley.  His  ghost  to  come  before  me !  It  is 
likely  it  was  on  account  of  the  fork  !  I  to  have  it  and 
he  to  have  no  way  to  defend  himself  the  time  he  met 
with  his  death  ! 

Magistrate  [to  Policeman].     I  must  note  down  his 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  265 

words.     [Takes  out  notebook.     To    Hartley.]     I   warn 
you  that  your  words  are  being  noted. 

Bartley.  If  I  had  ha'  run  faster  in  the  beginning, 
this  terror  would  not  be  on  me  at  the  latter  end  !  Maybe 
he  will  cast  it  up  against  me  at  the  day  of  judgment  — 
I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at  that. 

Magistrate  [writing].     At  the  day  of  judgment  — 

Bartley.  It  was  soon  for  his  ghost  to  appear  to 
me  —  is  it  coming  after  me  always  by  day  it  will  be, 
and  stripping  the  clothes  off  in  the  night  time  .?  —  I 
wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at  that,  being  as  I  am  an  un- 
fortunate man  ! 

Magistrate  [sternly].  Tell  me  truly.  What  was 
the  motive  of  this  crime  .? 

Bartley.     The  motive,  is  it  ? 

Magistrate.     Yes,  the  motive ;  the  cause. 

Bartley.     I'd  sooner  not  say  that. 

Magistrate.  You  had  better  tell  me  truly.  Was 
it  money  ? 

Bartley.  Not  at  all !  What  did  poor  Jack  Smith 
ever  have  in  his  pockets  unless  it  might  be  his  hands 
that  would  be  in  them  ? 

Magistrate.     Any  dispute  about  land  ? 

Bartley  [indignantly].  Not  at  all !  He  never  was 
a  grabber  or  grabbed  from  any  one ! 

Magistrate.  You  will  find  it  better  for  you  if  you 
tell  at  once. 

Bartley.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  for  the  whole 
world  wish  to  say  what  it  was  —  it  is  a  thing  I  would 
not  like  to  be  talking  about. 

Magistrate.  There  is  no  use  in  hiding  it.  It  will 
be  discovered  in  the  end. 

Bartley.     Well,    I    suppose    it    will,    seeing    that 


266     SHORT  PL.4YS  BY  REPRESEXTJTirE  AUTHORS 

mostly  even-body  knows  it  before.  \Miisper  here 
now.  I  will  tell  no  lie ;  where  would  be  the  use } 
[Puts  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  Magistrate  stoops.] 
Don't  be  putting  the  blame  on  the  parish,  for  such  a 
thing  was  never  done  in  the  parish  before  —  it  was 
done  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Kean,-,  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Magistr.\te  [to  Policeman].  Put  on  the  hand- 
cuffs. We  have  been  saved  some  trouble.  I  knew 
he  would  confess  if  taken  in  the  right  way. 

[Policeman  puts  on  handcuffs.] 

Bartley.  Handcuffs  now !  Glory  be !  I  always 
said,  if  there  was  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this 
place  it  was  on  myself  it  would  fall.  I  to  be  in  hand- 
cuffs !     There's  no  wonder  at  all  in  that. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Fallon,  follozved  by  the  rest.  She  is 
looking  back  at  them  as  she  speaks.] 

Mrs.  F.\llon.  Telling  lies  the  whole  of  the  people 
of  this  town  are ;  telling  lies,  telling  lies  as  fast  as  a 
dog  will  trot !  Speaking  against  my  poor  respectable 
man  !  Saying  he  made  an  end  of  Jack  Smith  !  My 
decent  comrade  !  There  is  no  better  man  and  no  kinder 
man  in  the  whole  of  the  five  parishes !  It's  little 
annoyance  he  ever  gave  to  any  one!  [Turns  and  sees 
him.]  What  in  the  earthly  world  do  I  see  before  me  ? 
Bartley  Fallon  in  charge  of  the  police !  Handcuffs 
on  him  !     O  Bartley,  what  did  you  do  at  all  at  all .'' 

Bartley.  O  Mar\-,  there  has  a  great  misfortune 
come  upon  me !  It  is  what  I  always  said,  that  if 
there  is  ever  any  misfortune  — 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  did  he  do  at  all.  or  is  it  be- 
witched I  am  .? 

Magistrate.  This  man  has  been  arrested  on  a 
charge  of  murder. 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  267 

Mrs.  Fallon,  ^^^^ose  charge  is  that .'  Don't 
beheve  them  I  They  are  all  liars  in  this  place  !  Give 
me  back  my  man  ! 

Magistrate.  It  is  natural  you  should  take  his 
part,  but  you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  against 
your  neighbors.  He  has  been  arrested  for  the  murder 
of  John  Smith,  on  his  own  confession. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  The  saints  of  heaven  protect  us! 
And  what  did  he  want  killing  Jack  Smith  .? 

Magistr.ate.  It  is  best  you  should  know  all.  He 
did  it  on  account  of  a  love  affair  with  the  murdered 
man's  wife. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [sitting  doy:n\.  With  Jack  Smith's 
wife  !     With  Kitty  Kear\- !  —  Ochone,  the  traitor  ! 

The  Crowd.  A  great  shame,  indeed.  He  is  a 
traitor,  indeed. 

Mrs.  Tully.  To  America  he  was  bringing  her, 
IMrs.  Fallon. 

Bartley.  WTat  are  you  saying,  Mar\' .?  I  tell 
you  — • 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Don't  say  a  word.  I  won't  listen 
to  any  word  you'll  say  I  [Stops  her  ears.]  O,  isn't  he 
the  treacherous  villain  .'     Ohone  go  deo  ! 

Bartley.  Be  quiet  till  I  speak  I  Listen  to  what 
I  say ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sitting  beside  me  on  the  ass  car 
coming  to  the  town,  so  quiet  and  so  respectable,  and 
treachery  like  that  in  his  heart  I 

Bartley.  Is  it  your  wits  you  have  lost  or  is  it  I 
myself  that  have  lost  my  wits  r 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  it's  hard  I  earned  you,  slav- 
ing, slaving  —  and  you  grumbling,  and  sighing,  and 
coughing,  and  discontented,  and  the  priest  wore  out 


268     SHORT  PLAY'S   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

anointing  you,  with   all  the  times  you  threatened  to 
die! 

Bartley.     Let  you  be  quiet  till  I  tell  you  ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  You  to  bring  such  a  disgrace  into 
the  parish !  A  thing  that  was  never  heard  of  be- 
fore ! 

Hartley.  Will  you  shut  your  mouth  and  hear  me 
speaking  } 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  if  it  was  for  any  sort  of  a  fine 
handsome  woman,  but  for  a  little  fistful  of  a  woman 
like  Kitty  Keary,  that's  not  four  feet  high  hardly, 
and  not  three  teeth  in  her  head  unless  she  got  new 
ones!  May  God  reward  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  for  the 
black  treachery  in  your  heart  and  the  wickedness  in 
your  mind,  and  the  red  blood  of  poor  Jack  Smith  that 
is  wet  upon  your  hand  ! 

[Foice  0/ Jack  Smith  heard  singing.] 
The  sea  shall  be  dry. 

The  earth  under  mourning  and  ban  ! 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man  ! 

Bartley.  It's  Jack  Smith's  voice  —  I  never  knew 
a  ghost  to  sing  before  —  It  is  after  myself  and  the 
fork  he  is  coming !  [Goes  back.  Enter  Jack  Smith.] 
Let  one  of  you  give  him  the  fork  and  I  will  be  clear  of 
him  now  and  for  eternity ! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us.  Red 
Jack  Smith  !     The  man  that  was  going  to  be  waked  ! 

James  Ryan.  Is  it  back  from  the  grave  you  are 
come  .? 

Shawn  Early.  Is  it  alive  you  are,  or  is  it  dead  you 
are .'' 

Tim  Casey.     Is  it  yourself  at  all  that's  in  it .? 


SPREADING   THE  NEWS  269 

Mrs.  Tully.  Is  it  letting  on  you  were  to  be 
dead  ? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Dead  or  alive,  let  you  stop  Kitty 
Keary,.  your  wife,  from  bringing  my  man  away  with 
her  to  America  ! 

Jack  Smith.  It  is  what  I  think,  the  wits  are  gone 
astray  on  the  whole  of  you.  \Vhat  would  my  wife 
want  bringing  Bartley  Fallon  to  America  .? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  To  leave  yourself,  and  to  get  quit 
of  you  she  wants,  Jack  Smith,  and  to  bring  him  away 
from  myself.  That's  what  the  two  of  them  had  settled 
together. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that 
says  that!  Who  is  it  says  it.?  [To  Tim  Casey.] 
Was   it   you   said   it .?     [To   Shawn    Early.]     Was   it 

you  ? 

All  Together  [hacking  and  shaking  their  heads]. 
It  wasn't  I  said  it ! 

Jack  Smith.     Tell  me  the  name  of  any  man  that 

said  It ! 

All  Together  [pointing  to  Hartley].  It  was  him 
that  said  it ! 

Jack  Smith.     Let  me  at  him  till  I  break  his  head  ! 

[Bartley  hacks  in  terror.  Neighhors  hold  Jack  Smith 
hack.\ 

Jack  Smith  [trying  to  free  himself].  Let  me  at  him  ! 
Isn't  he  the  pleasant  sort  of  a  scarecrow  for  any  woman 
to  be  crossing  the  ocean  with  !  It's  back  from  the 
docks  of  New  York  he'd  be  turned  [trying  to  rush  at 
him  again],  with  a  lie  in  his  mouth  and  treachery  in 
his  heart,  and  another  man's  wife  by  his  side,  and  he 
passing  her  off  as  his  own  !  Let  me  at  him,  can't  you? 
[Makes  another  rush  hut  is  held  hack.] 


270     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Magistrate  [pointing  to  Jack  Smith].  Policeman, 
put  the  handcuffs  on  this  man.  I  see  it  all  now.  A 
case  of  false  impersonation,  a  conspiracy  to  defeat 
the  ends  of  justice.  There  was  a  case  in  the  Andaman 
Islands,  a  murderer  of  the  Mopsa  tribe,  a  religious 
enthusiast  — 

Policeman.     So  he  might  be,  too. 

Magistrate.  We  must  take  both  these  men  to  the 
scene  of  the  murder.  We  must  confront  them  with 
the  body  of  the  real  Jack  Smith. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that 
will  find  my  dead  body  ! 

Magistrate.  I'll  call  more  help  from  the  barracks. 
[Blows  Policeman's  zi'histlc] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  am  thinking,  if  myself  and 
Jack  Smith  are  put  together  in  the  one  cell  for  the 
night,  the  handcuffs  will  be  taken  off  him,  and  his 
hands  will  be  free,  and  murder  will  be  done  that  time 
surely ! 

Magistrate.     Come  on  !     [They  turn  to  the  right.] 


THE   SWAN  SONG^ 

BY 

ANTON  TCHEKHOFF 

TRANSLATED  BY 

MARIAN   FELL 


^  Reprinted  from  the  volume  "  Plays"  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must  be  made  to 
the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


Of  all  modern  writers  perhaps  TchekhofF  is  the  dear- 
est to  the  Russian  people.  Though  he  was  the  grand- 
child of  a  serf,  he  was  graduated  in  medicine  from  the 
University  of  Moscow  in  1884,  and  afterwards  worked 
strenuously  at  both  medicine  and  literature.  He  died 
in  1904  in  a  little  village  of  the  Black  Forest,  Germany. 

Unlike  most  of  the  great  Russian  writers,  TchekhofF 
couples  his  sadness  with  the  smiles  of  a  great  humorist; 
but  his  sympathy  with  suffering  brings  all  of  his  laugh- 
ter near  to  tears.  The  "Sea  Gull"  tells  of  his  own  ex- 
perience as  a  young  author.  "The  Cherry  Orchard," 
his  last  play,  redolent  of  country  life  and  Russian 
character  in  general,  caused  him  to  be  feted  as  one  of 
Russia's  greatest  dramatists.  "The  Swan  Song," 
heavy  with  the  author's  power  of  analysis,  is  one  of 
his  innumerable  glimpses  into  the  lives  of  Russian 
characters. 


THE    SWAN    SONG 

Characters 

Vasili  Svietlovidoff,  a  comedian,  68  years  old. 
NiKiTA   IvANiTCH,    a   prompter,   an   old   man. 

The  scene  is  laid  on  the  stage  of  a  country  theatre, 
at  night,  after  the  play.  To  the  right  a  row  of  rough, 
unpainted  doors  leading  into  the  dressing-rooms.  To 
the  left  and  in  the  background  the  stage  is  encumbered 
with  all  sorts  of  rubbish.  In  the  middle  of  the  stage 
is  an  overturned  stool. 

Svietlovidoff  [zvith  a  candle  in  his  hand,  comes 
out  of  a  dressing-room  and  laughs].  Well,  well,  this  is 
funny  !  Here's  a  good  joke  !  I  fell  asleep  in  my  dress- 
ing-room when  the  play  was  over,  and  there  I  was 
calmly  snoring  after  everybody  else  had  left  the  theatre. 
Ah  !  I'm  a  foolish  old  man,  a  poor  old  dodderer !  I 
have  been  drinking  again,  and  so  I  fell  asleep  in  there, 
sitting  up.  That  was  clever!  Good  for  you,  old  boy! 
[Calls.]  Yegorka !  Petrushka !  Where  the  devil  are 
you  .'*  Petrushka !  The  scoundrels  must  be  asleep, 
and  an  earthquake  wouldn't  wake  them  now !  Ye- 
gorka !  [Picks  up  the  stool,  sits  down,  and  puts  the  candle 
on  the  floor.]  Not  a  sound  !  Only  echoes  answer  me. 
I  gave  Yegorka  and  Petrushka  each  a  tip  to-day,  and 
now  they  have  disappeared  without  leaving  a  trace 
behind  them.  The  rascals  have  gone  off  and  have 
probably  locked  up  the  theatre.  [Turns  his  head  about.] 
T  273 


274     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

I'm    drunk !     Ugh !     The    play    to-night   was    for   my 
benefit,  and  it  is  disgusting  to  think  how  much  beer 
and  wine  I  have  poured  down  my  throat  in  honor  of 
the    occasion.     Gracious !     My    body    is    burning    all 
over,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  twenty  tongues  in  my  mouth. 
It  is  horrid  !     Idiotic !     This  poor  old  sinner  is  drunk 
again,  and  doesn't  even  know  what  he  has  been  cele- 
brating!    Ugh!     My  head  is  splitting.      I  am  shiver- 
mg  all  over,  and  I  feel  as  dark  and  cold  inside  as  a 
cellar!     Even  if   I    don't    mind    ruining  my  health,  L 
ought  at  least  to  remember  my  age,  old  idiot  that  I  am  I 
Yes,  my  old  age  !     It's  no  use  !     I  can  play  the  fool, 
and  brag,  and  pretend  to  be  young,  but  my  life  is  really 
over  now,  I  kiss  my  hand  to  the  sixty-eight  years  that 
have   gone    by ;  I'll    never    see   them    again !     I    have 
drained  the  bottle,  only  a  few  little  drops  are  left  at 
the  bottom,  nothing  but  the  dregs.     Yes,  yes,  that's 
the  case,  Vasili,  old  boy.     The  time  has  come  for  you 
to  rehearse  the  part  of  a  mummy,  whether  you  like  it 
or  not.     Death  is  on  its  way  to  you.     [Stares  ahead  of 
him.]     It  is  strange,  though,  that  I  have  been  on  the 
stage  now  for  forty-five  years,  and  this  is  the  first  time 
I  have  seen  a  theatre  at  night,  after  the  lights  have 
been  put  out.     The  first  time.     [JValks  up  to  the  foot- 
lights.]    How  dark  it  is !     I  can't  see  a  thing.     Oh,  yes, 
I  can  just  make  out  the  prompter's  box,  and  his  desk; 
the  rest  is  in  pitch  darkness,  a  black,  bottomless  pit, 
like  a  grave,  in  which  death  itself  might  be  hiding.  .  .  . 
Brr  .  .  .     How  cold  it  is  !     The  wind  blows  out  of  the 
empty  theatre  as  though  out  of  a  stone  flue.     What  a 
place  for  ghosts !     The    shivers  are    running    up    and 
down    my    back.        [Calls.]       Yegorka !        Petrushka ! 
Where  are  you  both  .?     What  on  earth  makes  me  think 


THE  SWAN  SONG  275 

of  such  gruesome  things  here  ?  I  must  give  up  drink- 
ing; I'm  an  old  man,  I  shan't  Hve  much  longer.  At 
sixty-eight  people  go  to  church  and  prepare  for  death, 
but  here  I  am  —  heavens  !  A  profane  old  drunkard 
in  this  fool's  dress  —  I'm  simply  not  fit  to  look  at.  I 
must  go  and  change  it  at  once.  .  .  This  is  a  dreadful 
place,  I  should  die  of  fright  sitting  here  all  night. 
[Goes  tozvard  his  dressing-room;  at  the  same  time  Nikita 
IvANiTCH  in  a  long  white  coat  comes  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  stage.  Svietlovidoff  sees 
IvANiTCH  —  shrieks  with  terror  and  steps  hack.]  Who 
are  you  ?  What :  What  do  you  want  ^  [Stamps  his 
foot.]  Who  are  you  ? 
IVANITCH.  It  is  I,  sir. 
Svietlovidoff.     Who  are  you  ? 

IvANiTCH.  [Comes  slowly  tozvard  hint.]  It  is  I,  sir, 
the  prompter,  Nikita  Ivanitch.  It  is  I,  master,  it  is  I  ! 
Svietlovidoff.  [Sijiks  helplessly  on  to  the  stool, 
breathes  heavily  and  trembles  violently.]  Heavens  !  Who 
are  you?  It  is  you  .  .  .  you  Nikitushka  ?  What  .  .  . 
what   are  you   doing  here  r 

Ivanitch.  I  spend  my  nights  here  in  the  dressing- 
rooms.  Only  please  be  good  enough  not  to  tell  Alexi 
Fomitch,  sir.  I  have  nowhere  else  to  spend  the  night; 
indeed,  I  haven't. 

Svietlovidoff.  Ah  !  It  is  you,  Nikitushka,  is  it  ? 
Just  think,  the  audience  called  me  out  sixteen  times ; 
they  brought  me  three  wreaths  and  lots  of  other  things, 
too;  they  were  all  wild  with  enthusiasm,  and  yet  not  a 
soul  came  when  it  was  all  over  to  wake  the  poor,  drunken 
old  man  and  take  him  home.  And  I  am  an  old  man, 
Nikitushka !  I  am  sixty-eight  years  old,  and  I  am 
ill.     I  haven't  the  heart  left  to  go  on.     [Falls  on  Ivan- 


276     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

itch's  neck  and  weeps.]  Don't  go  away,  Nikitushka ;  I 
am  old  and  helpless,  and  I  feel  it  is  time  for  me  to  die. 
Oh,  it  is  dreadful,  dreadful ! 

IvANiTCH  [tenderly  and  respectfully].  Dear  mas- 
ter !     It  is  time  for  you  to  go  home,  sir  ! 

SviETLOviDOFF.  I  won't  go  home;  I  have  no  home 
—  none  !  none  !  —  none  ! 

IvANiTCH.  Oh,  dear !  Have  you  forgotten  where 
you  live  ? 

SviETLOViDOFF.  I  won't  go  there.  I  won't !  I 
am  all  alone  there.  I  have  nobody,  Nikitushka  !  No 
wife  —  no  children.  I  am  like  the  wind  blowing  across 
the  lonely  fields.  I  shall  die,  and  no  one  will  remember 
me.  It  is  awful  to  be  alone  —  no  one  to  cheer  me,  no 
one  to  caress  me,  no  one  to  help  me  to  bed  when  I  am 
drunk.  Whom  do  I  belong  to  ?  Who  needs  me  ^ 
Who  loves  me  }     Not  a  soul,  Nikitushka. 

Ivan  ITCH  [zveeping].   Your  audience  loves  you,  master. 

SviETLOViDOFF.  My  audience  has  gone  home.  They 
are  all  asleep,  and  have  forgotten  their  old  clown.  No, 
nobody  needs  me,  nobody  loves  me ;  I  have  no  wife, 
no  children. 

IvANiTCH.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  Don't  be  so  un- 
happy  about   it. 

SviETLOViDOFF.  But  I  am  a  man,  I  am  still  alive. 
Warm,  red  blood  is  tingling  in  my  veins,  the  blood  of 
noble  ancestors.  I  am  an  aristocrat,  Nikitushka ;  I 
served  in  the  army,  in  the  artillery,  before  I  fell  as  low 
as  this,  and  what  a  fine  young  chap  I  was  !  Handsome, 
daring,  eager!  Where  has  it  all  gone.''  What  has  be- 
come of  those  old  days  ^  There's  the  pit  that  has  swal- 
lowed them  all !  I  remember  it  all  now.  Forty-five 
years  of  my  life  lie  buried  there,  and  what  a  life,  Niki- 


THE  SWAN  SONG  277 

tushka  !  I  can  see  it  as  clearly  as  I  see  your  face :  the 
ecstasy  of  youth,  faith,  passion,  the  love  of  women  — 
women,  Nikitushka  ! 

IvANiTCH.     It  is  time  you  went  to  sleep,  sir. 

SviETLOviDOFF.  When  I  first  went  on  the  stage,  in 
the  first  glow  of  passionate  youth,  I  remember  a 
woman  loved  me  for  acting.  She  was  beautiful,  grace- 
ful as  a  poplar,  young,  innocent,  pure,  and  radiant  as 
a  summer  dawn.  Her  smile  could  charm  away  the 
darkest  night.  I  remember,  I  stood  before  her  once, 
as  I  am  now  standing  before  you.  She  had  never 
seemed  so  lovely  to  me  as  she  did  then,  and  she  spoke 
to  me  so  with  her  eyes  —  such  a  look  !  I  shall  never 
forget  it,  no,  not  even  in  the  grave ;  so  tender,  so  soft, 
so  deep,  so  bright  and  young !  Enraptured,  intoxi- 
cated, I  fell  on  my  knees  before  her,  I  begged  for  my 
happiness,  and  she  said:  "Give  up  the  stage!"  Give 
up  the  stage  !  Do  you  understand  ^  She  could  love 
an  actor,  but  marry  him  —  never !  I  was  acting  that 
day,  I  remember  —  I  had  a  foolish,  clown's  part,  and 
as  I  acted,  I  felt  my  eyes  being  opened ;  I  saw  that  the 
worship  of  the  art  I  had  held  so  sacred  was  a  delusion 
and  an  empty  dream;  that  I  was  a  slave,  a  fool,  the 
plaything  of  the  idleness  of  strangers.  I  understood 
my  audience  at  last,  and  since  that  day  I  have  not  be- 
lieved in  their  applause,  or  in  their  wreaths,  or  in 
their  enthusiasm.  Yes,  Nikitushka !  The  people 
applaud  me,  they  buy  my  photograph,  but  I  am  a 
stranger  to  them.  They  don't  know  me,  I  am  as  the 
dirt  beneath  their  feet.  They  are  willing  enough  to 
meet  me  .  .  .  but  allow  a  daughter  or  a  sister  to  marry 
me,  an  outcast,  never  !  I  have  no  faith  in  them,  [Sinks 
on  to  the  stool.]  no  faith  in  them. 


278     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESEXTATIJ'E   AUTHORS 

IvANiTCH.  Oh,  sir!  you  look  dreadfully  pale,  you 
frighten  me  to  death  !  Come,  go  home,  have  mercy  on 
me  ! 

SviETLOviDOFF.  I  saw  through  it  all  that  day,  and 
the  knowledge  was  dearly  bought.  Nikitushka  !  After 
that  .  .  .  when  that  girl  .  .  .  well,  I  began  to  wan- 
der aimlessly  about,  living  from  day  to  day  without 
looking  ahead.  I  took  the  parts  of  buffoons  and  low 
comedians,  letting  my  mind  go  to  wreck.  Ah  !  but  I 
was  a  great  artist  once,  till  little  by  little  I  threw  away 
my  talents,  played  the  motley  fool,  lost  my  looks,  lost 
the  power  of  expressing  myself,  and  became  in  the  end 
a  Merry  Andrew  instead  of  a  man.  I  have  been  swal- 
lowed up  in  that  great  black  pit.  I  never  felt  it  before, 
but  to-night,  when  I  woke  up,  I  looked  back,  and  there 
behind  me  lay  sixty-eight  years.  I  have  just  found 
out  what  it  is  to  be  old  !  It  is  all  over  .  .  .  [sobs]  .  .  . 
all  over. 

IvANiTCH.  There,  there,  dear  master!  Be  quiet 
.   .  .  gracious  !     [Calls.]     Petrushka  !     Yegorka  ! 

SviETLOviDOFF.  But  what  a  genius  I  was !  You 
cannot  imagine  what  power  I  had,  what  eloquence; 
how  graceful  I  was,  how  tender;  how  many  strings 
[b^ats  his  breast]  quivered  in  this  breast !  It  chokes  me 
to  think  of  it !  Listen  now,  wait,  let  me  catch  my 
breath,  there;  now  listen  to  this: 

"The  shade  of  bloody  Ivan  now  returning 
Fans  through  my  lips  rebellion  to  a  flame, 
I  am  the  dead  Dimitri !     In  the  burning 
Boris  shall  perish  on  the  throne  I  claim. 
Enough  !     The  heir  of  Czars  shall  not  be  seen 
Kneeling  to  yonder  haughty  Polish  Queen  !"  ^ 
1  From  "  Boris  GodunofF,"  by  Pushkin. 


THE  SWAX  SONG  279 

Is  that  bad,  eh  ?     [Quickly.]     Wait,  now,  here's  some- 
thing from  King  Lear.     The  sky  is  black,  see  ?     Rain 
is  pouring    down,  thunder    roars,  hghtning  —  zzz-zzz- 
zzz  —  spHts  the  whole  sky,  and  then,  listen: 
"Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks!  rage!  blow! 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes  spout 
Till  vou  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks  ! 
You  sulphurous  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt-couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts. 
Singe  my  white  head  !     And  thou,  all  shaking  thunder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world  ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germens  spill  at  once 
That  make  ungrateful  man  !" 

[Impatiently.]  Now,  the  part  of  the  fool.  [Stamps 
his  foot.]  Come,  take  the  fool's  part !  Be  quick,  I  can't 
wait ! 

IvANiTCH.  [Takes  the  part  of  the  fool]  "O,  Nuncle, 
court  holy-water  in  a  dry  house  is  better  than  this  ram- 
water  out  o' door.  Good  Nuncle,  in  ;  ask  thy  daughter's 
blessing:  here's  a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor 
fools." 

SviETLOVIDOFF. 

"Rumble  thy  bellyful !     spit,  fire  !  spout,  rain  ! 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters; 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children." 

Ah  !  there  is  strength,  there  is  talent  for  you  1  Fm 
a  great  artist !  Now,  then,  here's  something  else  of 
the  same  kind,  to  bring  back  my  youth  to  me.  For 
instance,  take  this,  from  Hamlet,  I'll  begin  ...  let  me 
see,  how  does  it  go  ?  Oh,  yes,  this  is  it.  [Takes  the  part 
of  Hamlet.] 


280     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

"O!  the  recorders,  let  me  see  one.  —  To  withdraw 
with  you.  Why  do  you  go  about  to  recover  the  wind 
of  me,  as  if  you  would  drive  me  into  a  toil  t  " 

IvANiTCH.  "O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my 
love  is  too   unmannerly." 

SviETLOViDOFF.  "I  do  not  well  understand  that. 
Will  you  play  upon  this  pipe?" 

IvANiTCH.     "My  lord,  I  cannot." 

SviETLOViDOFF.     "I    pray   you." 

IvANiTCH.     "Believe  me,  I   cannot." 

SviETLOViDOFF.     "I  do  besecch  you." 

IvANlTCH.     "I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord." 

SviETLOViDOFF.  " 'Tis  as  easy  as  lying  :  govern  these 
ventages  with  your  finger  and  thumb,  give  it  breath 
with  your  mouth,  and  it  will  discourse  most  eloquent 
music.     Look  you,  these  are  the  stops." 

IvANiTCH.  "But  these  I  cannot  command  to  any 
utterance  of  harmony  :  I  have  not  the  skill." 

SviETLOViDOFF.  "Why,  look  you,  how  unworthy  a 
thing  you  make  of  me.  You  would  play  upon  me ;  you 
would  seem  to  know  my  stops ;  you  would  pluck  out 
the  heart  of  my  mystery ;  you  would  sound  me  from 
my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my  compass ;  and  there  is 
much  music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ,  yet 
cannot  you  make  it  speak.  S'blood  !  Do  you  think  I 
am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe }  Call  me  what 
instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  me,  you  can- 
not play  upon  me!"  {Laughs  and  clasps.]  Bravo! 
Encore  !  Bravo  !  Where  the  devil  is  there  any  old  age 
in  that  ?  I'm  not  old,  that  is  all  nonsense,  a  torrent  of 
strength  rushes  over  me ;  this  is  life,  freshness,  youth  ! 
Old  age  and  genius  can't  exist  together.  You  seem  to 
be  struck  dumb,  Nikitushka.     Wait  a  second,  let  me 


THE  SWAN  SONG  28 1 

come  to  my  senses  again.  Oh !  Good  Lord !  Now 
then,  Hsten  !  Did  you  ever  hear  such  tenderness,  such 
music  ?     Sh  !  Softly  ; 

"The  moon  had  set.     There  was  not  any  light, 
Save  of  the  lonely  legion'd  watch-stars  pale 
In  outer  air,  and  what  by  fits  make  bright 
Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Searched  by  the  lamping  fly,  whose  little  spark 
Went  in  and  out,  like  passion's  bashful  hope." 

[The  noise  of  opening  doors  is  heard.]     What's  that.? 

IvANiTCH.  There  are  Petrushka  and  Yegorka  com- 
ing back.     Yes,  3'ou  have  genius,  genius,  my  master. 

SviETLOViDOFF.  [Calls,  turning  toward  the  noise.] 
Come  here  to  me,  boys!  [To  Ivanitch.]  Let  us  go 
and  get  dressed.  I'm  not  old  !  All  that  is  foolishness, 
nonsense!  [Laughs  gayly.]  What  are  you  crying  for.? 
You  poor  old  granny,  you,  what's  the  matter  now.? 
This  won't  do !  There,  there,  this  won't  do  at  all ! 
Come,  come,  old  man,  don't  stare  so  !  What  makes  you 
stare  like  that  .?  There,  there  !  [Embraces  him  in  tears.] 
Don't  cry  !  Where  there  is  art  and  genius  there  can 
never  be  such  things  as  old  age  or  loneliness  or  sickness 
.  .  .  and  death  itself  is  half.  .  .  [Weeps.]  No,  no, 
Nikitushka!  It  is  all  over  for  us  now!  What  sort 
of  a  genius  am  I  ?  I'm  like  a  squeezed  lemon,  a  cracked 
bottle,  and  you — you  are  the  old  rat  of  the  theatre 
,  .  .  a  prompter!  Come  on!  [They  go.]  I'm  no 
genius,  I'm  only  fit  to  be  in  the  suite  of  Fortinbras,  and 
even  for  that  I  am  too  old.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember  those  lines  from  Othello,  Nikitushka  .? 

"Farewell    the    tranquil    mind!     Farewell    content! 
Farewell  the  plumed  troops  and  the  big  wars 


282     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

That  make  ambition  virtue  !     O  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality. 
Pride,  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war!" 

IvANiTCH.     Oh  !     You're  a  genius,  a  genius  ! 
SviETLOViDOFF.     And  again  this  : 

"Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon, 
Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale  beam  of  even  : 
Away  !  the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness  soon. 
And   profoundest  midnight   shroud  the  serene  lights  of 
heaven." 

{They  go  out  together,  the  curtain  jails  slozvly.\ 


THE   MAN  ON  THE   KERB 
A  DUOLOGUE 

BY 

ALFRED  SUTRO 


1  Reprinted  from  the  volume  "Five  Little  Plays"  by  permission 
of  the  author.  For  permission  to  perform  this  play  application  must 
be  made  to  the  author  in  care  of  the  publisher,  Brentano. 


It  was  well  that  Alfred  Sutro,  the  son  of  an  English 
country  physician,  once  a  commission  merchant  and 
then  a  manufacturer,  retired  at  thirty  to  write  high 
comedy,  and  gave  us  "The  Walls  of  Jericho"  and  "The 
Builders  of  Bridges."  In  story  and  presentation  he  is 
strong,  as  becomes  the  writer  of  comedy  of  manners, 
giving  in  ordinary  speech  of  ordinary  people  incidents 
cleverly  contrived. 

In  the  pathetic,  one-act  play,  "The  Man  on  the 
Kerb,"  there  is  no  imaginative  language,  no  splendid 
phrases,  but  it  is  very  close  to  life. 


THE    MAN    ON    THE    KERB 


The  Persons  of  the  Play 

Joseph  Matthews 
Mary  [his  wife] 

Time  :  The    present. 

Scene  :  Their  home  In  the  West  End. 

Scene  :  ^n  underground  room,  hare  of  any  furniture  ex- 
cept tzvo  or  three  broken  chairs,  a  tattered  mattress  on 
the  stone  floor,  and  an  old  trunk.  On  a  packing  chest 
are  a  few  pots  and  pans  and  a  kettle.  A  few  sacks 
are  spread  over  the  floor,  close  to  the  empty  grate ;  the 
walls  are  discolored,  with  plentiful  signs  of  damp  ooz- 
ing thraugh.  Close  to  the  door,  at  back,  is  a  zvindozv, 
looking  on  to  the  areas ;  two  of  the  panes  are  broken 
and  stuffed  zvith   paper. 

On  the  mattress  a  child  is  sleeping,  covered  zvith  a  tattered 
old  mantle;  Mary  is  bending  over  her,  crooning  a 
song.  The  woman  is  still  quite  young,  and  must 
have  been  very  pretty;  hut  her  cheeks  are  hollozu  and 
there  are  great  circles  round  her  eyes ;  her  face  is  very 
pale  and  bloodless.  Her  dress  is  painfully  worn  and 
shabby,  but  displays  pathetic  attempts  at  neatness. 
The  only  light  in  the  room  comes  fro^n  the  street  lamp 
on  the  pavement  above. 

Joe  comes  dozvn  the  area  steps,  and  enters.  Ilis  clothes 
are  of  the  familiar  colorless,  shapeless  kind  one  sees 

285 


286     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

at  street  corners;  he  zvould  he  a  pleasant  looking 
young  fellow  enough  were  it  not  that  his  face  is  ab- 
normally lined,  and  pinched,  and  zveather-beaten. 
He  shambles  in,  with  the  intense  weariness  of  a  man 
who  has  for  hours  been  forcing  benumbed  limbs  to 
move ;  he  shakes  himself,  on  the  threshold,  dog-fashion, 
to  get  rid  of  the  rain.  Mary  first  makes  sure  that 
the  child  is  asleep,  then  rises  eagerly  and  goes  to  him. 
Her  face  falls  as  she  notes  his  air  of  dejection. 

Mary    [wistfully].     Nothing,    Joe  ? 

Joe.     Nothing.     Not  a  farthing.     Nothing. 

[Mary  turns  away  and  checks  a  moan.] 

Joe.  Nothing  at  alh  Same  as  yesterday  —  worse 
than  yesterday  —  I  did  bring  home  a  few  coppers  — 
And  you  ? 

Mary.     A  lady  gave  Minnie  some  food  — 

Joe  [heartily].     Bless  her  for  that! 

Mary.     Took  her  into  the  pastrycook's,  Joe  — 

Joe.  And  the  kiddie  had  a  tuck-out  ?  Thank  God  ! 
And  3^ou  ? 

Mary.  Minnie  managed  to  hide  a  great  big  bun 
for  me. 

Joe.     The  lady  didn't  give  you  anything .? 

Mary.  Only  a  lecture,  Joe,  for  bringing  the  child 
out  on  so  bitter  a  day. 

Joe  [zvith  a  sour  laugh,  as  he  sits  on  a  chair].  Ho,  ho ! 
Always  so  ready  with  their  lectures,  aren't  they  ? 
"Shouldn't  beg,  my  man  !  Never  give  to  beggars  in  the 
street !"  —  Look  at  me,  I  said  to  one  of  them.  Feel  my 
arm.  Tap  my  chest.  T  tell  you  I'm  starving,  and 
they're  starving  at  home.  —  "Never  give  to  beggars 
in  the  street." 


THE  MAN  ON   THE  KERB  287 

Mary  [layijig  a  hand  on  his  arm].    Oh,  Joe,  you're  wet ! 

Joe.  It's  been  raining  hard  the  last  three  hours  — 
pouring.  My  stars,  it's  cold.  Couldn't  we  raise  a  bit 
of  fire,  Mary  .? 

Mary.     With  what,  Joe  ? 

Joe  [after  a  look  round,  suddenly  getting  up,  seizing  a 
rickety  chair  by  the  zvall,  breaking  off  the  legs].  With 
this  !  Wonderful  fine  furniture  they  give  you  on  the 
Hire  System  —  so  solid  and  substantial  —  as  adver- 
tised. [He  breaks  the  flimsy  thing  up,  as  he  speaks.] 
And  to  think  we  paid  for  this  muck,  in  the  days  we  were 
human  beings  —  paid  about  three  times  its  value ! 
And  to  think  of  the  poor  devils,  poor  devils  like  us,  who 
sweated  their  life-blood  out  to  make  it  — -  and  of  the 
blood-sucking  devils  who  sold  it  and  got  fat  on  it  — 
and  now  back  it  goes  to  the  devil  it  came  from,  and  we 
can  at  least  get  warm  for  a  minute.  [He  crams  the  zvood 
into  the  grate.]     Got  any  paper,  Mary  ? 

Mary  [taking  an  old  newspaper  from  the  trunk].  Here, 
Joe. 

Joe.  That  will  help  to  build  up  a  fire.  [He  glances 
at  it,  then  lays  it  carefully  under^ieath  the  zvood.  Mary 
gets  lamp  from  table.]  The  Daily  Something  or  other  — 
that  tells  the  world  what  a  happy  people  we  are  —  how 
proud  of  belonging  to  an  Empire  on  which  the  sun  never 
sets.  And  I'd  sell  Gibraltar  to-night  for  a  sausage  with 
mashed  potatoes;  and  let  Russia  take  India  if  some 
one  would  give  me  a  clerkship  at  a  pound  a  week.  — 
There,  in  you  go  !     A  match,  Mary  ? 

Mary  [standing  above  Joe,  handing  him  one].  Oh, 
Joe,  be  careful  —  we've  only  two  left ! 

Joe.  I'll  be  careful.  Wait,  though  —  I'll  see 
whether  there's  a  bit  of  tobacco  still  in  my  pipe.     [He 


288     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

fishes  the  pipe  out  of  his  pocket.]  A  policeman  who 
warned  me  away  from  the  kerb  gave  me  some  tobacco. 
"Mustn't  beg,"  he  said.  "Got  a  pipe?  Well,  here's 
some  tobacco."  I  believe  he'd  have  given  me  money. 
But  it  was  the  first  kind  word  I  had  heard  all  day,  and 
it  choked  me.  —  There's  just  a  bit  left  at  the  bottom. 
[He  bustles.]  Now,  first  the  fire.  [He  puts  the  match 
to  the  paper  —  it  kindles.]  And  then  my  pipe.  [The  fire 
burns  up ;  he  throws  himself  in  front  of  it.]  Boo-o-oh, 
I'm  sizzling  ...  I  got  so  wet  that  I  felt  the  water 
running  into  my  lungs  —  my  feet  didn't  seem  to  be- 
long to  me  —  and  as  for  my  head  and  nose  !  [Yawns.] 
Well,  smoke's  good  —  by  the  powers,  I'm  getting  warm 
—  come  closer  to  it,  Mary.  It's  a  little  after  midnight 
now  —  and  I  left  home,  this  fine,  luxurious  British 
home,  just  as  soon  as  it  was  light.  And  I've  tramped 
the  streets  all  day.  Net  result,  a  policeman  gave  me 
a  pipeful  of  tobacco,  I  lunched  off  a  bit  of  bread  that 
I  saw  floating  down  the  gutter  —  and  I  dined  off  the 
kitchen  smell  of  the  Cafe  Royal.     That's  my  day. 

Mary  [stroking  his  hand].     Poor  boy,  poor  boy  ! 

Joe.  I  stood  for  an  hour  in  Leicester  Square  when 
the  theatres  emptied,  thinking  I  might  earn  a  copper, 
calling  a  cab,  or  something.  There  they  were,  all 
streaming  out,  happy  and  clean  and  warm  —  broughams 
and  motor-cars  —  supper  at  the  Savoy  and  the  Carl- 
ton —  and  a  hundred  or  two  of  us  others  in  the  gutter, 
hungry  —  looking  at  them.  They  went  off  to  their 
supper  —  it  was  pouring,  and  I  got  soaked  —  and  there 
I  stood,  dodging  the  policemen,  dodging  the  horses' 
heads  and  the  motors  —  and  it  was  always  —  get 
away,  you  loafer,  get  away  —  get  away  —  get  away  — 

Mary.     We've  done  nothing  to  deserve  it,  Joe  — 


THE  MAN  ON   THE  KERB  289 

Joe  [with  sudden  fury].  Deserve  it !  What  have  I 
ever  done  wrong !  Wasn't  my  fault  the  firm  went 
bankrupt  and  I  couldn't  get  another  job.  I've  a  first- 
rate  character  —  I'm  respectable  —  what's  the  use? 
I  want  to  work  —  they  won't  let  me  ! 

Mary.  That  illness  of  mine  ate  up  all  our  savings. 
O  Joe,  I  wish  I  had  died  ! 

Joe.  And  left  me  alone  ?  That's  not  kind  of  you, 
Mary.  How  about  Mrs.  Willis  ?  Is  she  worrying  about 
the  rent  ? 

Mary.  Well,  she'd  like  to  have  it,  of  course  — 
they're  so  dreadfully  poor  themselves  —  but  she  says 
she  won't  turn  us  out.  And  I'm  going  to-morrow  to 
her  daughter's  upstairs  —  she  makes  match-boxes, 
you  know  —  and  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  try  —  I 
could  earn  a  shilling  a  day. 

Joe.  a  shilling  a  day  !  Princely !  [His  pipe  goes 
out.  He  takes  a  last  puff  at  it,  squints  into  it  to  make  sitre 
all  the  tobacco  is  gone,  then  lays  it  dozvn  with  a  sigh.]  I 
reckon  /'//  try  making  'em  too.  I  went  to  the  Vestry 
again,  this  morning,  to  see  whether  they'd  take  me  as 
sweeper  —  but  they've  thirty  names  down,  ahead  of 
me.  I've  tried  chopping  wood,  but  I  can't  —  I  begin 
to  cough  the  third  stroke  —  there's  something  wrong 
with  me  inside,  somewhere.  I've  tried  every  Institu- 
tion on  God's  earth  —  and  there  are  others  before  me, 
and  there  is  no  vacancy,  and  I  mustn't  beg,  and  I 
mustn't  worry  the  gentlemen.  A  shilling  a  day  — 
can  one  earn  as  much  as  that !  Why,  Mary,  that  will 
be  fourteen  shillings  a  week  —  an  income !     We'll   do 

it! 

Mary.     It's   not   quite   a   shilling,  Joe  —  you   have 

to  find  your  own  paste  and  odds  and  ends.     And  of 
u 


290     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

course  it  takes  a  few  weeks  to  learn,  before  you  begin  to 
make  any  money. 

Joe  [crestfallen].  Does  it  though  ?  And  what  are 
we  going  to  do,  those  few  weeks  ?  I  thought  there  was 
a  catch  in  it  somewhere.  [He  gets  up  and  stretches  him- 
self.] Well,  here's  a  free-born  Englishman,  able  to 
conduct  correspondence  in  three  languages,  book-keep- 
ing b}^  double  entry,  twelve  years'  experience  —  and 
all  he's  allowed  to  do  is  to  starve.  [He  stretches  himself 
again.] 

But  in  spite  of  all  temptations 
To  belong  to  other  nations  — 

[With  sudden  passion.]     God  !  I  wish  I  were  a  Zulu! 

Mary  [edging  to  him].     Joe  — 

Joe  [t^irning].     Well  ? 

Mary.  Joe,  Joe,  we've  tried  very  hard,  haven't  we.? 

Joe.  Tried  !  Is  there  a  job  in  this  world  we'd  re- 
fuse ?  Is  there  anythmg  we'd  turn  up  our  nose  at? 
Is   there   any   chance  we've  neglected  ? 

Mary  [stealing  nervously  to  him  and  laying  a  hand  on 
his  arm].     Joe  — 

Joe  [raising  his  head  and  looking  at  her].  Yes  — 
what  is  it  ?  [She  stands  timidly  with  downcast  eyes.] 
Well  ?     Out  with   it,   Mary  ! 

Mary  [sudde?ily].     It's  this,  Joe. 

[She  goes  feverishly  to  the  mattress,  and  from  under- 
neath it  she  pulls  out  a  big,  fat  purse  which  she  hands  him.]- 

Joe   [staring].     A  purse ! 

Mary  [nodding].     Yes. 

Joe.     You  — 

Mary.     Found  it. 

Joe   [looking  at  her].     Found  .? 

Mary  [awkwardly].     In  a  way  I  did  —  yes. 


THE  MAN  ON   THE  KERB  29 1 

Joe.     How  ? 

Mary.  It  came  on  to  rain,  Joe  —  and  I  went  into  a 
Tube  Station  —  and  was  standing  by  a  bookstall, 
showing  Minnie  the  illustrated  papers  —  and  an  old 
lady  bought  one  —  and  she  took  out  her  purse  —  this 
purse  —  and  paid  for  it  —  and  laid  the  purse  on  the 
board  while  she  fumbled  to  pick  up  her  skirts  —  and 
then  some  one  spoke  to  her  —  a  friend,  I  suppose  — 
and  —  there  were  lots  of  people  standing  about  —  I 
don't  know  how  it  was  —  I  was  out  in  the  street,  with 
Minnie  — 

Joe.     You  had  the  purse  \ 
Mary.     Yes  — 
Joe.     No  one  followed  you  .? 

Mary.  No  one.  I  couldn't  run,  as  I  had  to  carry 
Minnie. 

Joe.     What  made  you  do  it .'' 

Mary.  I  don't  know  —  something  in  me  did  it  — 
She  put  the  purse  dow^n  just  by  the  side  of  my  hand  — • 
my  fingers  clutched  it  before  I  knew  —  and  I  was  out 
in  the  street. 

Joe.     How  much  is  there  in  it  ? 
Mary.     I    haven't   looked,    Joe. 
Joe  [zvonderingly].     You  haven't  looked  ? 
Mary.     No;  I  didn't  dare. 

Joe  [sorrowfully].  I  didn't  think  wVd  come  to  this, 
Mary. 

Mary  [desperately].  We've  got  to  do  something. 
Before  we  can  earn  any  money  at  making  matchboxes 
we'll  have  to  spend  some  weeks  learning.  And  you've 
not  had  a  decent  meal  for  a  month  —  nor  have  I. 
If  there's  money  inside  this  purse  you  can  get  some 
clothes  —  and   for  me  too  —  I   need  them  !     It's   not 


292     SHORT  PLJYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

as  though  the  old  lady  would  miss  it  —  she's  rich  enough 
—  her  cloak  was  real  sable  —  and  no  one  can  find  us 
out  —  they  can't  tell  one  piece  of  money  from  the  other. 
It's  heavj^,  Joe  —  I  think  there's  a  lot  inside. 

Joe  [zueighing  it  mechanically].     Yes  —  it's  heavy  — 

Mary  [eagerly].     Open  it,  Joe. 

Joe  [turning  to  her  again].     Why  didn't  you  .' 

Mary.  I  just  thought  I'd  wait  —  I'd  an  idea  some- 
thing might  have  happened  ;  that  some  one  might  have 
stopped  you  in  the  street,  some  one  with  a  heart  — 
and  that  he'd  have  come  in  with  you  to-night  —  and 
seen  us  —  seen  Minnie  —  and  said  ^  "Well,  here's 
money  —  I'll  put  you  on  your  legs  again"  —  And  then 
we'd  have  given  the  purse  back,  Joe. 

Joe  [as  he  still  mechanically  balances  it  in  his  hand]. 
Yes. 

Mary.  Can't  go  on  like  this,  can  we  ?  You'll 
cough  all  night  again,  as  you  did  yesterday  —  and  the 
stuff  they  gave  you  at  the  Dispensary's  no  good.  If 
you  had  clothes,  you  might  get  some  sort  of  a  job  per- 
haps—  you  know  you  had  to  give  up  trying  because 
you  were  so  shabby. 

Joe.     They  laugh  at  me. 

Mary  [zcith  a  glance  at  herself].  And  I'm  really 
ashamed  to  walk  through  the  streets  — 

Joe.  I  know  —  though  I'm  getting  used  to  it. 
Besides,  there's  the  kiddie.     Let's  have  a  look  at  her. 

Mary.     Be  careful  you  don't  wake  her,  Joe ! 

Joe.     There's   a   fire. 

Mary.     She'll  be  hungry. 

Joe.     You  said  that  she  had  some  food  .? 

Mary.  That  was  at  three  o'clock.  And  little 
things  aren't  like  us  —  they  want  their  regular  meals. 


THE  MAX  OX   THE  KERB  293 

Night  after  night  she  has  been  hungry,  and  I've  had 
nothing  to  give  her.     That's  why  I  took  the  purse. 

Joe  [still  holding  it  mechanically  and  ^staring  at  it\. 
Yes.     And,  after  all,  why  not  r 

Mary.  We  can  get  the  poor  little  thing  some  warm 
clothes,   some  good   tood  — 

Joe  [under  his  breath].     A  thief's  daughter. 

[Covers  his  face  zvith  his  hands.] 

Mary.     Joe ! 

Joe.  Not  nice,  is  it  ?  Can't  be  helped,  of  course. 
And  who  cares  r  For  three  months  this  game  has  gone 
on  —  we  getting  shabbier,  wretcheder,  hungrier, — 
no  one  bothers  —  all  they  say  is  "keep  off  the  pave- 
ment."    Let's  see  what's  in  the  purse. 

IMary  [eagerly].     Yes,  yes  ! 

Joe  [lifting  his  head  as  he  is  on  the  faint  of  opening 
the  purse].     That's  the  policeman  passing. 

Mary  [ivipatieyitly].     Never  mind  that  — 

Joe  [turning  to  the  purse  again].  First  time  in  my 
life  Fve  been  afraid  when  I  heard  the  policeman. 

[He  has  his  finger  on  the  catch  of  the  purse  zvhen  he 
pauses  for  a  moment  —  then  acting  on  a  sudden  impulse., 
makes  a  dart  for  the  door,  opens  it,  and  is  out,  and  up  the 
area  steps.] 

Mary  [with  a  despairing  cry].     Joe  ! 

[She  flings  herself  on  the  mattress,  and  sobs  silently,  so 
as  not  to  awaken  the  child.  Joe  returns,  hanging  his 
head,  draggijig  07ie  foot  before  the  other.] 

Mary  [still  sobbing,  but  trying  to  control  herself].  \\  hy 
did  you  do  that  ? 

Joe   [humbly].     I   don't   know  — 

Mary.     You  gave  it  to  the  policeman  .^ 

Joe.     Yes. 


294     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Mary.     What  did  you  tell  him  ? 

Joe.     That  you  had  found  it. 

Mary.     Where .? 

Joe.  In  a  Tube  Station.  Picked  it  up  because  we 
were  starving.  That  we  hadn't  opened  it.  And  that 
we  lived  here,  in  this  cellar. 

Mary  [with  a  little  shake],  I  expect  he'll  keep  it 
himself! 

Joe  [miserably].     Perhaps. 

[There  is  silence  for  a  moment;  she  has  ceased  to  cry; 
suddenly  she  raises  herself  violently  on  her  elbow.] 

Mary.     You  fool!     You  fool! 

Joe  [pleading].     Mary  ! 

Mary.  With  your  stupid  ideas  of  honesty  !  What 
have  they  done  for  you,  or  me.? 

Joe  [dropping  his  head  again].  It's  the  kiddie,  you 
know  —  her  being  a  thief's  daughter  — 

Mary.  Is  that  worse  than  being  the  daughter  of  a 
pair  of  miserable  beggars  .? 

Joe  [under  his  breath].     I  suppose  it  is,  somehow  — 

Mary.     You'd  rather  she  went  hungry  ? 

Joe  [despairingly].  I  don't  know  how  it  was  — 
hearmg  his  tramp  up  there  — 

Mary.     You  were  afraid  .? 

Joe.     I  don't  want  you  taken  to  prison. 

Mary  [with  a  wail].  I'll  be  taken  to  the  graveyard 
soon,  in  a  pauper's  coffin  ! 

Joe  [starts  suddenly].     Suppose  we  did  that  ? 

Mary  [staring].     The  workhouse  .? 

Joe.  Why  not,  after  all .''  That's  what  it  will  come 
to,  sooner  or  later. 

Mary.     They'd   separate   us. 

Joe.     At  least  you  and  the  kiddie'd  have  food. 


THE  MAN  ON   THE  KERB  295 

Mary.  They'd  separate  us.  And  I  love  you,  Joe. 
My  poor,  poor  Joe !     I  love  you. 

[She  nestles  up  to  him  and  takes  his  hand.] 

Joe  [holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  bending  over  her]. 
You  forgive  me  for  returning  the  purse  ? 

Mary  [dropping  her  head  on  his  shoulder].  Forgive 
you  !  You  vt^ere  right.  It  was  the  cold  and  the  hunger 
maddened  me.     You  were  right ! 

Joe  [springing  to  his  feet,  with  sudden  passion.  Mary 
staggers  hack].  I  wasn't  right  —  I  was  a  coward,  a 
criminal  —  a  vile  and  wicked  fool. 

Mary  [startled].     Joe ! 

Joe.  I  had  money  there  —  money  in  my  hand  — 
money  that  you  need  so  badly,  you,  the  woman  I  love 
with  all  my  ragged  soul  —  money  that  would  have  put 
food  into  the  body  of  my  little  girl  —  money  that  was 
mine,  that  belonged  to  me  —  and  I've  given  it  back,  be- 
cause of  my  rotten  honesty  !  What  right  have  I  to 
be  honest.?  They've  made  a  dog  of  me  —  what  busi- 
ness had  I  to  remember  I  was  a  man  .? 

Mary  [following  him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm]. 
Hush,  Joe  —  You'll  wake  Minnie. 

Joe  [turning  and  stating  haggardly  at  her].  I  could 
have  got  clothes  —  a  job,  perhaps  —  we  might  have 
left  this  cellar.  We  could  have  gone  out  to-morrow 
and  bought  things  —  gone  into  shops  —  we  might  have 
had  food,  coal  — 

Mary.  Don't,  Joe  —  what's  the  use  ?  And  who 
knows  —  it  may  prove  a  blessing  to  us.  You  told  the 
policeman  where  we  lived  ? 

Joe.  a  blessing!  I'll  get  up  to-morrow,  after  hav- 
ing coughed  out-  my  lungs  all  night  —  and  I'll  go  into  the 
streets  and  walk  there  from  left  to  right  and  from  right 


296     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

to  left,  standing  at  this  corner  and  at  that,  peering  into 
men's  faces,  watching  people  go  to  their  shops  and  their 
offices,  people  who  are  warm  and  comfortable  —  and 
so  it  will  go  on,  till  the  end  comes. 

Mary  {standing  very  close  to  him,  almost  in  a  whisper]. 
Why  not  now,  Joe  ? 

Joe  [with  a  startled  glance  at  her].     The  end  ? 

Mary.     There's  no  room  for  us  in  this  world  — 

Joe.     If  I'd  taken  that  money  — 

Mary.  It's  too  late  for  that  now.  And  I'm  glad 
you  didn't  —  yes,  I  am  —  I'm  glad.  We'll  go  before 
God  clean-handed.  And  we'll  say  to  Him  we  didn't 
steal,  or  do  anything  He  didn't  want  us  to.  And  we'll 
tell  Him  we've  died  because  people  wouldn't  allow  us  to 
live. 

Joe  [with  a  shudder].  No.  Not  that  —  we'll 
wait,  Mary.     Don't  speak  of  that. 

Mary  [wistfully].     You've  thought  of  it  too  ? 

Joe.  Thought  of  it !  Don't,  Mary,  don't !  It's 
bad  enough,  in  the  night,  when  I  lie  there  and  think  of 
to-morrow!     Something    will    happen  —  it    must. 

Mary.     What  ^.     We  haven't  a  friend  in  the  world. 

Joe.     I  may  meet  some  one  I  used  to  know. 

Mary.  You've  met  them  before  —  they  always  re- 
fuse — 

Joe  [passionately].  I've  done  nothing  wrong  —  I 
haven't  drunk  or  gambled  —  I  can't  help  being  only  a 
clerk,  and  unable  to  do  heavy  work  !  I  can't  help  my 
lungs  being  weak  !  I've  a  wife  and  a  child,  like  other 
people  —  and  all  we  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to  live  ! 

Mary  [pleading].  Let's  give  it  up,  Joe.  Go  away 
together,  you'd  sleep  without  coughing.  Sleep,  that's 
all.     And  God  will  be  kinder  than  men. 


THE  MAN  ON   THE  KERB  297 

Joe  [groaning].     Don't,  Mary  —  don't ! 

Mary.  Joe,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer  —  I  can't. 
Not  only  myself — but  Minnie  —  Joe,  it's  too  much 
for  me  !  I  can't  stand  Minnie  crying,  and  asking  me 
for  her  breakfast,  as  she  will  in  the  morning.  Joe,  dear 
Joe,  let  there  be  no  morning ! 

Joe   [completely  overcome].     Oh,  Mary,  Mary ! 

Mary.  It's  not  your  fault,  dear  —  you've  done 
what  you  could.  Not  your  fault  they  won't  let  you 
work  —  you've  tried  hard  enough.  And  no  woman 
ever  had  a  better  husband  than  you've  been  to  me.  I 
love  you,  dear  Joe.  And  let's  do  it  —  let's  make  an 
end.     And  take  Minnie  with  us. 

Joe  [springing  up].  Mary,  I'll  steal  something  to- 
morrow. 

Mary.  And  they'd  send  you  to  prison.  Besides, 
then  God  would  be  angry.  Now  we  can  go  to  Him  and 
need  not  be  ashamed.  Let  us,  dear  Joe  —  oh,  do  let 
us  !     I'm  so  tired  ! 

Joe.     No. 

Mary  [sorrowfully].     You  won't  ? 

Joe  [doggedly].     No.     We'll  go  to  the  workhouse. 

Mary.     You've  seen  them  in  there,  haven't  you  ? 

Joe.     Yes. 

Mary.  You've  seen  them  standing  at  the  window, 
staring  at  the  world  .''  And  they'd  take  you  away  from 
me. 

Joe.     That's  better  than  — 

Mary  [firmly].  I  won't  do  it,  Joe.  I've  been  a  good 
wife  to  you  —  I've  been  a  good  mother  :  and  I  love  you, 
though  I'm  ragged  and  have  pawned  all  my  clothes; 
and  I'll  strangle  myself  rather  than  go  to  the  workhouse 
and  be  shut  away  from  you. 


298     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

Joe  [zvith  a  loud  cry].  No !  I'll  make  them  give 
me  something;  and  if  I  have  to  kill,  it  shan't  be  my 
wife  and  child  !  To-morrow  I'll  come  home  with  food 
and  money  —  to-morrow  — 

[There  is  a  sudden  wail  from  the  child;  Joe  stops  and 
stares  at  her ;  Mary  goes  quickly  to  the  mattress  and  soothes 
the  little  girl.] 

Mary.  Hush,  dear,  hush  —  no,  it's  not  morning 
yet,  not  time  for  breakfast.  Go  to  sleep  again,  dear. 
Yes,  daddy's  come  back,  and  things  are  going  to  be  all 
right  now  —  No,  dear,  you  can't  be  hungry,  really  — 
remember  those  beautiful  cakes.  Go  to  sleep,  Minnie, 
dear.  You're  cold  .^  [She  takes  off  her  ragged  shazvl  and 
wraps  it  round  the  child.]  There,  dear,  you  won't  be 
cold  now.     Go  to  sleep,  Minnie  — 

[The  child's  zvail  dies  away,  as  Mary  soothes  her  hack 
to  sleep.] 

Joe  [staggering  forward  with  a  sudden  cry],  God,  O 
God,  give  us  bread  I 

THE    CURTAIN    SLOWLY    FALLS 


THE   SHADOWED   STAR 

BY 

MARY  MacMILLAN 


1  Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  "  Short  Plays,"  by  Mary 
MacMillan,  published  by  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati. 
Professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  strictly  reserved  by  the  author. 


In  her  preface  to  the  volume  called  "Short  Plays," 
from  which  this  play  is  taken,  the  author  says,  "Some 
are  born  dramatists,  —  like  Shakespeare ;  some  achieve 
dramatic  construction,  —  like  Ibsen;  and  some  have 
drama  thrust  upon  them  —  like  me."  She  explains 
that  she  was  commanded  by  some  clubwomen  to 
write  a  drama  that  could  be  acted  by  five  or  six  per- 
sons in  forty-five  minutes.  Certainly  Mary  Mac- 
Millan's  dialogue  is  most  pleasing  and  real,  and  from 
the  point  of  view  of  technique  the  construction  is  most 
apt. 

The  following  play  was  published  separately  by  the 
Consumers'  League  for  reasons  perfectly  obvious  from 
the  reading.  Miss  MacMillan's  big  heart  and  com- 
plete understanding  of  human  longings  are  here  made 
so  concrete  in  the  words  of  the  Old  Woman,  that  one 
wishes  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  her  through  the 
reading  of  her  other  dramas  in  the  above  volume. 


THE    SHADOWED    STAR 

Cast 

A  Woman,  the  mother 

An  Old  Woman,  the  grandmother 

Two  Girls,  the  daughters 

A  Messenger  Boy 

A  Neighbor 

Another  Neighbor 

\A  very  hare  room  in  a  tenement  house,  uncarpeted,  the 
boards  being  much  wor7i,  and  from  the  walls  the 
bluish  whitewash  has  scaled  azvay ;  in  the  front 
on  one  side  is  a  cooking-stove,  and  farther  back 
on  the  same  side  a  window;  on  the  opposite  side  is 
a  door  opening  into  a  hallway;  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  there  is  a  round,  zvorn  dining-table,  on  which 
stands  a  stunted,  scraggly  bit  of  an  evergreen-tree ; 
at  the  back  of  the  room,  near  the  window,  stands 
an  old-fashioned  safe  with  perforated  tin  front; 
next  it  a  door  opening  into  an  inner  room,  and  next 
it  in  the  corner  a  bed,  on  which  lies  a  pallid  zvoman; 
another  woman,  very  old,  sits  in  a  rocking-chair 
in  front  of  the  stove  and  rocks.  There  is  silence 
for  a  long  space,  the  old  woman  rocking  and  the 
woman  on  the  bed  giving  an  occasional  low  sigh  or 
groan.     At  last  the  old  woman  speaks.] 

The   Old   Woman.     David    an'    Michael    might   be 
kapin'   the  Christmas  wid   us  to-morrow  night   if  we 

301 


302     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

hadn't  left  the  ould  counthry.  They'd  never  be 
crossin'  the  sea  —  all  the  many  weary  miles  o'  wet- 
ness an'  fog  an'  cold  to  be  kapin'  it  wid  us  here  in  this 
great  house  o'  brick  walls  in  a  place  full  o'  strange 
souls.  They  would  never  be  for  crossin'  all  that  weary, 
cold,  green  wather,  groanin'  an'  tossin'  like  it  was  the 
grave  o'  sivin  thousan'  divils.  Ah,  but  it  would  be  a 
black  night  at  sea !  [She  remains  silent  for  a  few 
minutes,  staring  at  the  stove  and  rocking  slowly.]  If  they 
hadn't  to  cross  that  wet,  cold  sea  they'd  maybe  come. 
But  wouldn't  they  be  afeard  o'  this  great  city,  an' 
would  they  iver  find  us  here  ?  Six  floors  up,  an'  they 
niver  off  the  ground  in  their  lives.  What  would  ye 
be  thinkin'  t  [The  other  woman  does  ?iot  anszver  her. 
She  then  speaks  petulantly.]  What  would  ye  be  thinkin', 
Mary,  have  ye  gone  clane  to  slape  ?  [Turns  her  chair 
and  peers  around  the  hack  of  it  at  the  pallid  woman  on 
the  bed,  who  sighs  and  answers.] 

The  Woman.  No,  I  on'y  wisht  I  could.  Maybe 
they'll  come  —  I  don't  know,  but  father  an'  Michael 
wasn't  much  for  thravel.  [After  a  pause  and  very 
wearily.]  Maybe  they'll  not  come,  yet  [slowly]  maybe 
I'll  be  kapin'  the  Christmas  wid  them  there.  [The 
Old  Woman  seems  not  to  notice  this,  wandering  from  her 
question  back  to  her  memories.] 

The  Old  Woman.  No,  they'll  niver  be  lavin'  the 
ould  land,  the  green  land,  the  home  land.  I'm  wish- 
ing I  was  there  wid  thim.  [Another  pause,  while  she 
stares  at  the  stove.]  Maybe  Vv'e'd  have  a  duck  an' 
potatoes,  an'  maybe  something  to  drink  to  kape  us 
w^arm  against  the  cold.  An'  the  boys  would  all  be 
dancin'  an'  the  girls  have  rosy  cheeks.  [There  is  an- 
other pause,  and  then  a  knock  at  the  door.     "Come  in," 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR  303 

the  two  women  call,  in  reedy,  weak  voices.,  and  a  thin, 
slatternly  Irish  woman  enters.] 

The  Neighbor.  Good  evenin'  to  ye;  T  came  In 
to  ask  if  I  might  borrow  the  loan  o'  a  bit  o'  tay,  not 
bavin'  a  leaf  of  it  left. 

The  Woman.  We  have  a  little  left,  just  enough 
we  was  savin'  for  ourselves  to-night,  but  you're  wel- 
come to  it  —  maybe  the  girls  will  bring  some.  Will 
ye  get  it  for  her,  mother.''  Or  she  can  help  herself  — 
it's  in  the  safe.  It's  on  the  lower  shelf  among  the 
cups  an'  saucers  an'  plates.  [The  Old  Woman  and 
Neighbor  go  to  the  safe  and  hunt  for  the  tea,  and  do  not 
find  it  readily.  The  safe  has  little  in  it  hut  a  few  cracked 
and  broken  dishes.] 

The  Neighbor  [holding  up  a  tiny  paper  bag  with  an 
ounce  perhaps  of  tea  in  it].     It's  just  a  scrap  ! 

The  Old  Woman.  To  be  sure!  We  use  so  much 
tay  !     WVre  that  exthravagant ! 

The  Neighbor.  It  hurts  me  to  take  it  from  ye  — 
maybe  I'd  better  not. 

The  Old  Woman.  The  girls  will  bring  more.  We 
always  have  a  cupboard  full  o'  things.  We're  always 
able  to  lend  to  our  neighbors. 

The  Neighbor.  It's  in  great  luck,  ye  are.  For 
some  of  us  be  so  poor  we  don't  know  where  the  next 
bite's  comin'  from.  An'  this  winter  whin  iverything's 
so  high  an'  wages  not  raised,  a  woman  can't  find  enough 
to  cook  for  her  man's  dinner.  It  isn't  that  ye  don't 
see  things  —  oh,  they're  in  the  markets  an'  the  shops, 
an'  it  makes  yer  mouth  wather  as  ye  walk  along  the 
sthrates  this  day  before  Christmas  to  see  the  turkeys 
an'  the  ducks  ye'll  niver  ate,  an'  the  little  pigs  an' 
the  or'nges  an'  bananies  an'  cranberries  an'  the  cakes 


304     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

an'  nuts  an'  —  it's  worse,  I'm  thinkin',  to  see  thim 
whin  there's  no  money  to  buy  than  it  was  in  the  ould 
counthry,  where  there  was  nothing  to  buy  wid  the 
money  ye  didn't  have. 

The  Woman.  It's  all  one  to  us  poor  folk  whether 
there  be  things  to  buy  or  not.  [She  speaks  gaspingly, 
as  one  who  is  short  of  breath.]  I'm  on'y  thinkin'  o'  the 
clane  air  at  home  —  if  I  could  have  a  mornin'  o'  fresh 
sunshine  —  these  fogs  an'  smoke  choke  me  so.  The 
girls  would  take  me  out  to  the  counthry  if  they  had 
time  an'  I'd  get  well.  But  they  haven't  time.  [She 
falls  into  a  fit  of  coughing.] 

The  Old  Woman.  But  it's  like  to  be  bright  on 
Christmas  Day.  It  wouldn't  iver  be  cloudy  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  an'  maybe  even  now  the  stars  would  be  crapin' 
out  an'  the  air  all  clear  an'  cold  an'  the  moon  a-shinin* 
an'  iverything  so  sthill  an'  quiet  an'  gleamin'  an' 
breathless  [her  voice  falls  almost  to  a  whisper],  awaitin' 
on  the  Blessed  Virgin.  [She  goes  to  the  windozv,  lifts  the 
blind,  and  peers  out,  then  throws  up  the  sash  and  leans 
far  out.  After  a  moment  she  pulls  the  sash  down  again 
and  the  blind  and  turns  to  those  in  the  room  with  the  look 
of  pathetic  disappointment  in  little  things  of  the  aged.] 
No,  there's  not  a  sthar,  not  one  little  twinklin'  sthar, 
an'  how'll  the  shepherds  find  their  way }  Ivery- 
thing's  dull  an'  black  an'  the  clouds  are  hangin'  down 
heavy  an'  sthill.  How'll  the  shepherds  find  their  way 
without  the  sthar  to  guide  thim  ?  [Then  almost 
whimpering.]  An'  David  an'  Michael  will  niver  be 
crossin'  that  wet,  black  sea !  An'  the  girls  —  how'll 
they  find  their  way  home .?  They'll  get  lost  some- 
where along  by  the  hedges.     Ohone,  ohone  ! 

The  Neighbor.     Now,  grannie,  whay  would  ye  be 


THE  SHADOIVED  STAR  305 

sayin'  ?  There's  niver  a  hedge  anywhere  but  granite 
blocks  an'  electric  light  poles  an'  plenty  o'  light  in  the 
city  for  thim  to  see  all  their  way  home.  [Then  to  The 
Woman.]     Ain't  they  late  ? 

The  Woman.  They're  always  late,  an'  they  kape 
gettin'  lather  an'  lather. 

The  Neighbor.  Yis,  av  coorse,  the  sthores  is  all 
open  in  the  avnin's  before  Christmas. 

The  Woman.  They  go  so  early  in  the  mornin'  an' 
get  home  so  late  at  night,  an'  they're  so  tired. 

The  Neighbor  [zvhiningly].  They're  lucky  to  be 
young  enough  to  work  an'  not  be  married.  I've  got 
to  go  home  to  the  childer  an'  give  thim  their  tay. 
Pat's  gone  to  the  saloon  again,  an'  to-morrow  bein' 
Christmas  I  misdoubt  he'll  be  terrible  dhrunk  again, 
an'  me  on'y  jist  well  from  the  blow  in  the  shoulder  the 
last  time.  [She  wipes  her  eyes  and  moves  towards  the 
door.] 

The  Old  Woman.  Sthay  an'  kape  Christmas  wid 
us.  We're  goin'  to  have  our  celebratin'  to-night  on 
Christmas  Eve,  the  way  folks  do  here.  I  like  it  best 
on  Christmas  Day,  the  way  'tis  in  the  ould  counthry, 
but  here  'tis  Christmas  Eve  they  kape.  We're  waitin' 
for  the  girls  to  come  home  to  start  things  —  they 
knowin'  how  —  Mary  an'  me  on'y  know  how  to  kape 
Christmas  Day  as  'tis  at  home.  But  the  girls'll  soon  be 
here,  an'  they'll  have  the  tree  an'  do  the  cookin'  an' 
all,  an'  we'll  kape  up  the  jollity  way  into  the  night. 

The  Neighbor  [looks  questioningly  and  surprised 
at  The  Woman,  whose  eyes  are  on  the  mother].  Nay, 
if  Pat  came  home  dhrunk  an'  didn't  find  me,  he'd 
kill  me.  We  have  all  to  be  movin'  on  to  our  own 
throubles.     [She  goes  out,  and  The  Old  Woman  leaves  the 


306     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESEXTJTirE   AUTHORS 

Christmas  tree  which  she  had  been  fingering  and  admiring 
and  sits  down  in  the  rocking-chair  again.  After  a  while 
she  croons  to  herself  in  a  high,  broken  voice.  This  lasts 
some  titne,  when  there  is  the  noise  of  a  slamming  door 
and  then  of  footsteps  approaching.] 

The  Woman.  If  I  could  on'y  be  in  the  counthry  ! 
The  Old  Woman.  Maybe  that  would  be  the  girls  ! 
[She  starts  tremblingly  to  her  feet,  but  the  steps  come  up 
to  the  door  and  go  by.]  If  David  and  Michael  was  to 
come  now  an'  go  by  —  there  bein'  no  sthar  to  guide 
thim  ! 

The  Woman.  Nay,  mother,  'twas  the  shepherds 
that  was  guided  by  the  sthar  an'  to  the  bed  o'  the 
Blessed  Babe. 

The  Old  Woman.  Aye,  so  'twas.  What  be  I 
thinkin'  of.?  The  little  Blessed  Babe!  [She  smiles 
and  sits  staring  at  the  stove  again  for  a  little.]  But  they 
could  not  find  Him  to-night.  'Tis  so  dark  an'  no  sthars 
shinin'.  [After  another  pause.]  An'  what  would  shep- 
herds do  in  a  ghreat  city  .?  'Twould  be  lost  they'd  be, 
quicker  than  in  any  bog.  Think  ye,  Mary,  that  the 
boys  would  be  hootin'  thin  an'  the  p'lice,  maybe,  would 
want  to  be  aristin'  thim  for  loitherin'.  They'd  niver 
find  the  Blessed  Babe,  an'  they'd  have  to  be  movin' 
on.  [Another  pause,  and  then  there  is  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps  again.  The  Old  Woman  grasps 
the  arms  of  her  chair  and  leans  forward,  intently  listening.] 
That  would  sure  be  the  girls  this  time  !  [But  again  the 
footsteps  go  by.  The  Old  Woman  sighs.]  Ah,  but  'tis 
weary  waitin'  !  [There  is  another  long  pause.]  'Twas 
on  that  day  that  David  an'  me  was  plighted  —  a  brave 
Christmas  Day  wid  a  shinin'  sun  an'  a  sky  o'  blue  wid 
fair,  white  clouds.     An'  David  an'  me  met  at  the  early 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR  307 

mass  in  the  dark  o'  the  frosty  mornin'  afore  the  sun 
rose  —  an'  there  was  all  day  good  times  an'  a  duck 
for  dinner  and  puddin's  an'  a  party  at  the  O'Brady's 
in  the  evenin',  whin  David  an'  me  danced.  Ah,  but 
he  was  a  beautiful  dancer,  an'  me,  too  —  I  was  as 
light  on  my  feet  as  a  fairy.  [She  begins  to  croon  an  old 
dance  tune  and  hobbles  to  her  feet,  and,  keeping  time 
with  her  head,  tries  a  grotesque  and  feeble  sort  of  dancing. 
Her  eyes  brighten  and  she  smiles  proudly.]  Ay,  but  I 
danced  like  a  fairy,  an'  there  was  not  another  couple 
so  sprightl}-  an'  handsome  in  all  the  country.  [She 
tires,  and,  looking  pitiful  and  disappointed,  hobbles 
back  to  her  chair,  and  drops  into  it  again.]  Ah,  but  I 
be  old  now,  and  the  strength  fails  me.  [She  falls  into 
silence  for  a  fezv  minutes.]  'Twas  the  day  before  the 
next  Christmas  that  Michael  was  born  —  the  little 
man,  the  little  white  dove,  my  little  son!  [There  is  a 
moment's  pause,  and  then  the  pallid  woman  on  the  bed 
has  a  z'iolent  fit  of  coughing.] 

The  Woman.  Mother,  could  ye  get  me  a  cup  o' 
wather  ?  If  the  girls  was  here  to  get  me  a  bite  to  ate, 
maybe  it  would  kape  the  breath  in  me  the  night. 

The  Old  Woman  [starts  and  stares  at  her  daughter, 
as  if  she  hardly  comprehended  the  present  reality.  She 
gets  up  and  goes  over  to  the  window  under  which  there  is 
a  pail  full  of  water.  She  dips  some  out  in  a  tin  cup  aiid 
carries  it  to  her  bed.]  Ye  should  thry  to  get  up  an' 
move  about  some,  so  ye  can  enjoy  the  Christmas  threat. 
'Tis  bad  bein'  sick  on  Christmas.  Thry,  now,  Mary, 
to  sit  up  a  bit.  The  girls'U  be  wantin'  ye  to  be  merry 
wid  the  rest  av  us. 

The  Woman  [looking  at  her  mother,  with  a  sad  wist- 
fulness].     I    wouldn't    spoil    things    for    the    girls    if   I 


308     SHORT  PLAYS  BY'  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

could  help.  Maybe,  mother,  if  ye'd  lift  me  a  little  I 
could  sit  up.  [The  Old  Woman  tugs  at  her,  and  she 
herself  tries  hard  to  get  into  a  sitting  posture,  hut  after 
some  effort  and  panting  for  breath,  she  falls  hack  again. 
After  a  pause  for  rest,  she  speaks  gaspingly.]  Maybe 
I'll  feel  sthronger  lather  whin  the  girls  come  home  — 
they  could  help  me  —  [with  the  plaint  of  longing  in  her 
voice]  they  be  so  late  !  [After  another  pause.]  Maybe 
I'll  be  sthrong  again  in  the  mornin'  —  if  I'd  had  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Maybe  I  could  get  up  —  an'  walk  about  — 
an'  do  the  cookin'.  [There  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
again  they  call,  "Come  in,"  in  reedy,  zveak  voices.  There 
enters  a  little  messenger  hoy  in  a  ragged  overcoat  that 
reaches  almost  to  his  heels.  His  eyes  are  large  and  bright, 
his  face  pale  and  dirty,  and  he  is  fearfully  tired  and  worn.] 

The  Woman.  Why,  Tim,  boy,  come  in.  Sit  ye 
down  an'  rest,  ye're  lookin'  weary. 

The  Old  Woman.  Come  to  the  stove,  Timmie, 
man,  an'  warm  yourself.  We  always  kape  a  warm 
room  an'  a  bright  fire  for  our  visitors. 

The  Boy,  I  was  awful  cold  an'  hungry  an'  I  come 
home  to  get  somethin'  to  eat  before  I  started  out  on 
another  trip,  but  my  sisters  ain't  home  from  the  store 
yit,  an'  the  fire's  gone  out  in  the  stove,  an'  the  room's 
cold  as  outside.  I  thought  maybe  ye'd  let  me  come 
in  here  an'  git  warm. 

The  Old  Woman.  Poor  orphan!  Poor  lamb! 
To  be  sure  ye  shall  get  warm  by  our  sthove. 

The  Boy.  The  cars  are  so  beastly  col'  an'  so 
crowded  a  feller  mostly  has  to  stand  on  the  back  plat- 
form. [The  Old  Woman  takes  hitn  by  the  shoulder 
and  pushes  him  toward  the  stove,  but  he  resists.] 

The  Boy.     No,  thank  ye  —  I  don't  want  to  go  so 


THE  SHADOJVED  STAR  309 

near  yet;    my  feet's  all  numb  an'  they  allays  hurt  so 
when  they  warms  up  fast. 

The  Old  Woman.  Thin  sit  ye  down  off  from  the 
sthove.  [Moves  the  rocking-chair  farther  away  from  the 
stove  for  him.] 

The  Boy.  If  ye  don't  mind  I'd  rather  stand  on  'em 
'til  they  gets  a  little  used  to  it.  They  been  numb  off 
an'  on  mos'  all  day. 

The  Woman.  Soon  as  yer  sisters  come,  Timmie, 
ye'd  betther  go  to  bed  —  'tis  best  place  to  get  warm. 

The  Boy.  I  can't  —  I  got  most  a  three-hour  trip 
yet.  I  won't  get  home  any  'fore  midnight  if  I  don't 
get  lost,  and  maybe  I'll  get  lost  —  I  did  onct  out  there. 
I've  got  to  take  a  box  o'  'Merican  Beauty  roses  to  a 
place  eight  mile  out,  an'  the  house  ain't  on  the  car 
track,  but  nearly  a  mile  off,  the  boss  said.  I  wisht 
they  could  wait  till  mornin',  but  the  orders  was  they 
just  got  to  get  the  roses  to-night.  You  see,  out  there 
they  don'  have  no  gas  goin'  nights  when  there's  a  moon, 
an'  there'd  ought  to  be  a  moon  to-night,  on'y  the 
clouds  is  so  thick  there  ain't  no  light  gets  through. 

The  Old  Woman.  There's  no  sthar  shinin'  to- 
night, Tim.  [She  shakes  her  head  ominously.  She 
goes  to  the  window  for  the  second  time,  opens  it  as  before, 
and  looks  out.  Shutting  the  window,  she  comes  back 
and  speaks  slowly  and  sadly.]  Niver  a  sthar.  An' 
the  shepherds  will  be  havin'  a  hard  time,  Tim,  like  you, 
findin'  their  way. 

The  Boy.     Shepherds  .?    In  town  ?    What  shepherds  .? 

The  Woman.  She  manes  the  shepherds  on  Christ- 
mas Eve  that  wint  to  find  the  Blessed  Babe,  Jesus. 

The  Old  Woman.  'Tis  Christmas  Eve,  Timmie; 
ye  haven't  forgot  that,  have  ye  ? 


3IO     SHORT  PLAYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

The  Boy.  You  bet  I  ain't.  I  know  pretty  well 
when  Christmas  is  comin',  by  the  way  I  got  to  hustle, 
an'  the  size  of  the  boxes  I  got  to  carry.  Seems  as  if 
my  legs  an'  me  would  like  to  break  up  pardnership. 
I  got  to  work  till  midnight  every  night,  an'  I'm  so 
sleepy  I  drop  off  in  the  cars  whenever  I  get  a  seat. 
An'  the  girls  is  at  the  store  so  early  an'  late  they  don't 
get  time  to  cook  me  nothin'  to  eat. 

The  Woman.     Be  ye  hungry,  Timmie  ? 

The  Boy  {diffidently  and  looking  at  the  floor].  No, 
I  ain't  hungry  now. 

The  Woman.     Be  ye  shure,  Timmie  .? 

The  Boy.     Oh,  I  kin  go  till  I  git  home. 

The  Woman.  Mother,  can't  you  find  something 
for  him  to  ate  .? 

The  Old  Woman.  To  be  shure,  to  be  shure. 
[Bustling  about.]  We  always  kapes  a  full  cupboard 
to  thrate  our  neighbors  wid  whin  they  comes  in.  [She 
goes  to  the  empty  safe  and  fusses  in  it  to  find  something. 
She  pretends  to  he  very  busy,  and  then  glances  around 
at  the  boy  with  a  sly  look  and  a  smile.]  Ah,  Timmie, 
lad,  what  would  ye  like  to  be  havin'  now  ?  If  you  had 
the  wish  o'  yer  heart  for  yer  Christmas  dinner  an'  a 
good  fairy  set  it  all  afore  ye  .?  Ye'd  be  wishin'  maybe, 
for  a  fine  roast  duck,  to  begin  wid,  in  its  own  gravies 
an'  some  apple  sauce  to  go  wid  it ;  an'  ye'd  be  thinkin' 
o'  a  little  bit  o'  pig  nicely  browned  an'  a  plate  o'  po- 
tatoes ;  an'  the  little  fairy  woman  would  be  bringin' 
yer  puddin's  an'  nuts  an'  apples  an'  a  dish  o'  the 
swatest  tay.     [The  Boy  smiles  rather  ruefully.] 

The    Woman.     But,    mother,    you're    not    gettin' 
Tim  something  to  ate. 

The  Boy,     She's  makin'  me  mouth  water  all  right. 


THE  SIIADOJVED  ST.IR  311 

[The  Old  Woman  goes  hack  to  her  search,  hut  again  turns 
ahout  with  a  cumiiiig  look,  and  says  to  The  Boy.] 

The  Old  Woman.  Maybe  ye'll  meet  that  little 
fairy  woman  out  there  in  the  counthry  road  where 
ye' re  takin'  the  roses  !  [Nods  her  head  knowingly,  turn- 
ing to  the  safe  again.]  Here's  salt  an'  here's  pepper 
an'  here's  mustard  an'  a  crock  full  o'  sugar,  an',  oh! 
Tim,  here's  some  fine  cold  bacon  —  fine,  fat,  cold 
bacon  —  an'  here's  half  a  loaf  o'  white  wheat  bread  ! 
Whv)  Timmie,  lad,  that's  just  the  food  to  make  boys 
fat !  Ye'll  grow  famously  on  it.  'Tis  a  supper,  whin 
ye  add  to  it  a  dhrop  o'  iligant  milk,  that's  fit  for  a 
king.  [She  hustles  about  zvith  great  show  of  being  busy 
and  having  mitch  to  prepare.  Puts  the  plate  of  cold  haco7i 
upon  the  table  where  stands  the  stunted  hit  of  an  evergreen- 
tree,  then  brings  the  half-loaf  of  bread  and  cuts  it  into 
slices,  laying  pieces  of  bacon  on  the  slices  of  bread.  Then 
she  pours  out  a  glass  of  milk  from  a  dilapidated  and 
broken  pitcher  in  the  safe  and  brings  it  to  the  table.  The 
Boy  all  the  while  watching  her  hungrily.  At  last  he  says 
rather  apologetically  to  The  Woman.] 

The  Boy.  I  ain't  had  nothin'  since  a  wienerwurst 
at  eleven  o'clock. 

The  Old  Woman.  Now,  dhraw  up,  Timmie,  boy, 
an'  ate  yer  fill ;  ye're  more  thin  welcome.  [The  Boy 
does  not  sit  down,  but  stands  by  the  table  and -eats  a  slice 
of  bread  and  bacon,  drinking  from  the  glass  of  ?nilk  oc- 
casionally.] 

The  Woman.  Don't  they  niver  give  ye  nothin' 
to  ate  at  the  gran'  houses  when  ye'd  be  takin'  the 
roses  ? 

The  Boy.  Not  them.  They'd  as  soon  think  o' 
feedin'  a  telephone  or  an  automobile  as  me. 


312     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE   AUTHORS 

The  Woman,  But  don't  they  ask  ye  in  to  get  warm 
whin  ye've  maybe  come  so  far  ? 

The  Boy.  No,  they  don't  seem  to  look  at  me 
'zactly  Hke  a  caller.  They  generally  steps  out  long 
enough  to  sign  the  receipt-book  an'  shut  the  front  door 
behin'  'em  so  as  not  to  let  the  house  get  col'  the  length  o' 
time  I'm  standin'  there.  Well,  I'm  awful  much  obleeged 
to  ye.     Now,  I  got  to  be  movin'  on. 

The  Old  Woman.  Sthop  an'  cilibrate  the  Christ- 
mas wid  us.  We  ain't  started  to  do  nothin'  yet  be- 
cause the  girls  haven't  come  —  they  know  how  {nodding 
her  head]  —  an'  they're  goin'  to  bring  things  —  all  kinds 
o'  good  things  to  ate  an'  a  branch  of  rowan  wid  scarlet 
berries  shinin'  [gesticulating  and  with  gleaming  eyes],  an' 
we'll  all  be  merry  an'  kape  it  up  late  into  the  night. 

The  Boy  [in  a  little  fear  of  her].  I  guess  it's  pretty 
late  now.  I  got  to  make  that  trip  an'  I  guess  when 
I  get  home  I'll  be  so  sleepy  I'll  jus'  tumble  in.  Ye've 
been  awful  good  to  me,  an'  it's  the  first  time  I  been 
warm  to-day.  Good-by.  {He  starts  tozvards  the  door, 
hut  The  Old  Woman  follozvs  him  and  speaks  to  him 
coaxi^igly .] 

The  Old  Woman.  Ah,  don't  ye  go,  Michael, 
lad  !  Now,  bide  wid  us  a  bit.  [The  Boy,  surprised 
at  the  name,  looks  queerly  at  The  Old  Woman,  who  then 
stretches  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  says  beseechingly]  Ah, 
boy,  ah,  Mike,  bide  wid  us,  now  ye've  come !  We've 
been  that  lonesome  widout  ye  ! 

The  Boy  {frightened  and  shaking  his  head].  I've 
got  to  be  movin'. 

The  Old  Woman.     No,  Michael,  little  lamb,  no! 

The  Boy  [almost  terrified,  watchiyig  her  with  staring 
eyes,  and  backing  out].     I  got  to  go !     [The  Boy  goes 


THE  SHADOWED  STIR  313 

out,  and  The  Old  Woman  breaks  into  weeping,  totters 
over  to  her  old  rocking-chair  and  drops  into  it,  rocks  to 
and  fro,  wailing  to  herself.] 

The  Old  Woman.  Oh,  to  have  him  come  an'  go 
again,  my  httle  Michael,  my  little  lad  ! 

The  Woman.  Don't  ye,  dearie ;  now,  then,  don't 
ye!  'Twas  not  Michael,  hut  just  our  little  neighbor 
boy,  Tim.  Ye  know,  por  lamb,  now  if  ye'U  thry  to 
remember,  that  father  an'  Michael  is  gone  to  the 
betther  land  an'  us  is  left. 

The  Old  Woman.  Nay,  nay,  'tis  the  fairies  that 
took  thim  an'  have  thim  now,  kapin'  thim  an'  will  not 
ever  give  thim  back. 

The  Woman.  Whisht,  mother !  Spake  not  of  the 
little  folk  on  the  Holy  Night !  [Crosses  herself.]  Have 
ye  forgot  the  time  o'  all  the  year  it  is  ?  Now,  dhry 
yer  eyes,  dearie,  an'  thry  to  be  cheerful  like  for  the 
girls  be  comin'  home.  [A  noise  is  heard,  the  banging 
of  a  door  and  footsteps.]  Thim  be  the  girls  now,  shure 
they  be  comin'  at  last.  [But  the  sound  of  footsteps  dies 
away.]  But  they'll  be  comin'  soon.  [Wearily,  but 
with  the  inveterate  hope.] 

[The  two  women  relapse  into  silence  again,  which  is 
^lndisturbed  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  there  is  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  together  in  quavering,  reedy  voices,  they 
call,  "Come  in,"  as  before.  There  enters  a  tall,  big, 
broad-shouldered  woman  with  a  cold,  discontented,  hard 
look  upon  the  face  that  might  have  been  handsome  some 
years  back;  still,  in  her  eyes,  as  she  looks  at  the  pallid 
woman  on  the  bed,  there  is  something  that  denotes  a 
softness  underneath  it  all.] 

The  Old  Woman.  Good  avnin'  to  ye !  We're 
that  pleased  to  see  our  neighbors  ! 


314     SHORT  PLJYS   BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

The  Neighbor  [without  paying  any  attention  to  The 
Old  Woman,  but  entirely  addressing  The  Woman  on  the 
bed.]     How's  yer  cough  ? 

The  Woman.  Oh,  it's  just  the  same  —  maybe  a 
Httle  betther.  If  I  could  on'y  get  to  the  counthry ! 
But  the  girls  must  be  workin'  —  they  haven't  time 
to  take  me.  Sit  down,  won't  ye  ?  [The  Neighbor 
goes  to  the  bed  and  sits  dozen  on  the  foot  of  it.] 

The  Neighbor.  I'm  most  dead,  I'm  so  tired.  I 
did  two  washin's  to-day  —  went  out  and  did  one  this 
mornin'  and  then  my  own  after  I  come  home  this  after- 
noon. I  jus'  got  through  sprinkhn'  it  an'  I'll  iron 
to-morrow. 

The  Woman.     Not  on  Christmas  Day  ! 

The  Neighbor  [with  a  sneer].  Christmas  Day ! 
Did  ye  hear  'bout  the  Beckers  ?  Well,  they  was  all 
put  out  on  the  sidewalk  this  afternoon.  Becker's 
been  sick,  ye  know,  an'  ain't  paid  his  rent,  an'  his  wife's 
got  a  two-weeks-old  baby.  It  sort  o'  stunned  Mis' 
Becker,  an'  she  sat  on  one  of  the  mattresses  out  there 
an'  w^ouldn't  move,  an'  nobody  couldn't  do  nothin' 
with  her.  But  they  ain't  the  only  ones  has  bad 
luck  —  Smith,  the  painter,  fell  off  a  ladder  an'  got 
killed.  They  took  him  to  the  hospital,  but  it  wasn't 
no  use  —  his  head  was  all  mashed  in.  His  wife's  got 
them  five  boys  an'  Smith  never  saved  a  cent,  though  he 
warn't  no  drinkin'  man.  It's  a  good  thing  Smith's 
children  is  boys  —  they  can  make  their  livin'  easier ! 

The  WoMA^[s?niling  faintly].  Ain't  ye  got  no  cheer- 
ful news  to  tell  ?     It's  Christmas  Eve,  ye  know. 

The  Neighbor.  Christmas  Eve  don't  seem  to  pre- 
vent people  from  dyin'  an'  bein' turned  out  o'  house  an' 
home.     Did  ye  hear  how  bad  the  dipthery  is  .?     They 


THE  SHADOIVED  STAR 


3IS 


say  as  how  if  it  gits  much  worse  they'll  have  to  close 
the  school  in  our  ward.  Two  o'  the  Homan  children's 
dead  with  it.  The  first  one  wasn't  sick  but  two  days, 
an'  they  say  his  face  all  turned  black  'fore  he  died. 
But  it's  a  good  thing  they're  gone,  for  the  Homans 
ain't  got  enough  to  feed  the  other  six.  Did  ye  hear 
'bout  Jim  Kelly  drinkin'  again  .'*  Swore  off  for  two 
months,  an'  then  took  to  it  harder'n  ever  —  perty 
near  killed  the  baby  one  night. 

The  Woman  [zvith  a  wan,  beseeching  smile].  Won't 
you  please  not  tell  me  any  more .?  It  just  breaks 
me  heart. 

The  Neighbor  [grimly].  I  ain't  got  no  other  kind 
o'  news  to  tell.     I  s'pose  I  might's  well  go  home. 

The  Woman.  No,  don't  ye  go.  I  like  to  have  ye 
here  when  ye're  kinder. 

The  Neighbor  [fingering  the  bedclothes  and  smooth- 
ing them  over  the  woman.]  Well,  it's  gettin'  late,  an'  I 
guess  ye  ought  to  go  to  sleep. 

The  Woman.  Oh,  no,  I  won't  go  to  slape  till  the 
girls  come.  They'll  bring  me  somethin'  to  give  me 
strength.     If  they'd  on'y  come  soon  ! 

The  Neighbor.  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  set  up  'til  they 
git  home  .? 

The  Old  Woman.  That  we  are.  We're  kapin' 
the  cilebratin'  till  they  come. 

The  Neighbor.     What  celebratin'  ? 

The  Old  Woman.  Why,  the  Christmas,  to  be 
shure.  We're  goin'  to  have  high  jinks  to-night.  In 
the  ould  counthry  'tis  always  Christmas  Day,  but 
here  'tis  begun  on  Christmas  Eve,  an'  we're  on'y 
waitin'  for  the  girls,  because  they  know  how  to  fix 
things  betther  nor  Mary  an'  me. 


3i6     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

The  Neighbor  [staring].  But  ain't  they  workin' 
in  the  store  ? 

The  Old  Woman.  Yes,  but  they're  comin'  home 
early  to-night. 

The  Neighbor  [laughing  ironically].  Don't  ye 
fool  yerselves.  Why,  they've  got  to  work  harder  to- 
night than  any  in  the  whole  year. 

The  Woman  [wistfully].  But  they  did  say  they'd 
thry  to  come  home  early. 

The  Neighbor.  The  store's  all  crowded  to-night. 
Folks  'at's  got  money  to  spend  never  remembers  it 
till  the  last  minute.  If  they  didn't  have  none  they'd 
be  thinkin'  'bout  it  long  ahead.  Well,  I  got  to  be 
movin'.     I  wouldn't  stay  awake,  if  I  was  you. 

The  Old  Woman.  Sthay  and  kape  the  Christmas 
wid  us !  We'll  be  havin'  high  jinks  by  an'  by.  Sthay, 
now,  an'  help  us  wid  our  jollity ! 

The  Neighbor.  Nay,  I  left  my  children  in  bed, 
an'  I  got  to  go  back  to  'em.  An'  I  got  to  get  some 
rest  myself — I  got  that  ironin'  ahead  o'  me  in  the 
mornin'.  You  folks  better  get  yer  own  rest.  [She 
rises  and  zvalks  to  the  door.] 

The  Old  Woman  [beamingly].  David  an'  Michael's 
comin'.  [The  Neighbor  stands  with  her  back  against 
the  door  and  her  hand  on  the  knob,  staring  at  The  Old 
Woman.] 

The  Old  Woman  [smiling  rapturously].  Yis,  we're 
goin'  to  have  a  gran'  time.  [The  Neighbor  looks 
puzzled  and  fearful  and  troubled,  first  at  The  Woman 
and  then  at  The  Old  Woman.  Finally,  without  a 
word,  she  opens  the  door  and  goes  out.] 

The  Old  Woman  [going  about  in  a  tottering  sort  of 
dance].  David  an'  Michael's  comin'  an'  the  shep- 
herds, for  the  fairies  will  show  thim  the  way. 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR  317 

The  Woman.  If  the  girls  would  on'y  come !  If 
they'd  give  me  somethin'  so  as  I  wouldn't  be  so  tired  ! 

The  Old  Woman.  There's  niver  a  sthar  an'  there's 
nobody  to  give  thim  a  kind  word  an'  the  counthry 
roads  are  dark  an'  foul,  but  they've  got  the  little  folk 
to  guide  thim  !  An'  whin  they  reach  the  city  —  the 
poor,  lonesome  shepherds  from  the  hills !  — -  they'll 
find  naught  but  coldness  an'  hardness  an'  hurry.  [Oiies- 
tioningly.]  Will  the  fairies  show  thim  the  way  ? 
Fairies'  eyes  be  used  to  darkness,  but  can  they  see 
where  it  is  black  night  m  one  corner  an'  a  blaze  o' 
light  in  another  1:  [She  goes  to  the  window  for  the  third 
time,  opens  it  and  leans  far  out  for  a  long  time,  then 
turns  about  and  goes  on  in.  her  monotone,  closing  the 
window.  She  seems  by  this  time  quite  to  have  forgotten 
the  presence  of  the  pallid  woman  on  the  bed,  who  has 
closed  her  eyes,  and  lies  like  one  dead.] 

The  Old  Woman.  Nay,  there's  niver  a  sthar,  an' 
the  clouds  are  hangin'  heavier  an'  lower  an'  the  flakes 
o'  snow  are  fallin'.  Poor  little  folk  guidin'  thim  poor 
lost  shepherds,  leadin'  thim  by  the  hand  so  gently 
because  there's  no  others  to  be  kind  to  thim,  an' 
bringin'  thim  to  the  manger  o'  the  Blessed  Babe.  [She 
comes  over  to  her  rocking-chair  and  again  sits  down  in 
it,  rocks  slowly  to  and  fro,  nodding  her  head  in  time  to 
the  motion.]  Poor  little  mite  of  a  babe,  so  cold  an' 
unwelcome  an'  forgotten  save  by  the  silly  ould  shep- 
herds from  the  hills  !  The  silly  ould  shepherds  from 
the  strength  o'  the  hills,  who  are  comin'  through  the 
darkness  in  the  lead  o'  the  little  folk !  [She  speaks 
sloiver  and  lower,  and  finally  drops  into  a  quiet  crooning 
—  it  stops  and  The  Old  Woman  has  fallen  asleep \ 

curtain 


3i8     SHORT  PLAYS  BY  REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS 

[While  the  curtain  is  down,  the  pallid,  sick  woman 
upon  the  bed  dies ;  The  Old  Woman  being  asleep  does 
not  notice  the  slight  struggle  with  death.  The  fire  has 
gone  out  in  the  stove,  and  the  light  in  the  lamp,  and  the 
stage  is  in  complete  darkness  when  the  two  girls  come 
stumbling  in.  They  are  too  tired  to  speak,  too  weary  to 
show  surprise  that  the  occupants  of  the  room  are  not  awake. 
They  jumble  about,  trying  to  find  matches  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  finally  discover  them  and  a  candle  in  the  safe. 
They  light  the  candle  and  place  it  upon  the  table  by 
the  scraggy  little  evergreen-tree.  They  turn  about  and 
discern  their  grandmother  asleep  in  the  rockijig-chair. 
Hurriedly  they  turn  to  the  bed  and  discover  their  mother 
lying  there  dead.  For  a  full  minute  they  stand  gaz- 
ing at  her,  the  surprise,  wonder,  awe,  misery,  increasing 
in  their  faces ;  then  with  screams  they  run  to  the  bed, 
throw  themselves  on  their  knees  -and  bury  their  faces^ 
sobbing,  in  the  bedclothes  at  The  Woman's  feet.] 

CURTAIN 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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^81  JAN  3    1979 


Form  L9-25m-3, '62 (0716584)444 


yC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

II      II    II     IMIII       III     I    i 


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6>0 


